


plant new seeds in the melody

by provocation



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: .......... kind of, First Time, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen Affected Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trope Subversion/Inversion, canon-typical sex work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25820293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier accidentally get cursed; they must have sex with one another, and if they do not, they will die. They do not— neither of them is very good at following orders.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 406





	plant new seeds in the melody

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I can't believe "sex pollen affected Geralt" is an official tag on AO3 lmaooo. I know this fic concept has been done to death by now but I loved this idea too much to not write another one- and plus, this one has a twist! This started as an Amok Time au and ... it has now spiralled far, far away from that. 
> 
> I'm very grateful to my betas [sludgeraptor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludgeraptor) and [juwude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juwude) for editing this, my first fic for this ship! It's mostly based on the show lore as I have minimal experience with the games and books (although I'm getting into both now!) and also I made a lot of shit up. I hope you enjoy; feedback is greatly appreciated ♥

On the Path, they cling to each other. Not literally, of course; Geralt would sooner groom an Ulfhedinn than let Jaskier get close enough to actually hug him, but they’re never far apart at all. If Jaskier lingers behind Roach, chasing a sound on the breeze or trying to identify a wildflower, Geralt might grumble to himself about the time but he always waits. 

In the early years they had never been this close. But since his thirtieth birthday, Jaskier’s fearless bravado has evolved into the much healthier and wiser knowledge of exactly what kind of monsters are out there, and with that knowledge came the realization that if he’s going to accompany Geralt on these wild adventures, it’s best to stick by the man’s side as best he can.

They even sleep together. Not intimately, of course; Jaskier stopped counting how many hints he’d dropped after the third week of being shut down. If Geralt had any inclination to fuck the bard he’s been travelling with for more than fifteen years, well, he would have said something on one of the countless occasions that Jaskier dropped trou in front of him, or while snuggling together in inns with yellowed wallpaper and stone beds, or after hearing any one of the number of ballads penned in his name. Really, one can only piss uphill for so long before they realize the blunder they’ve made; it’s a wonder Jaskier still has the energy to flirt with the dunce of a man at all.

In the cities and towns, however, they stray further from each other than would even seem wise. This, too, is new— in the early days, Jaskier would always keep the witcher in his peripheral like a desperate hunter, too worried that Geralt would disappear around some corner and not resurface for two summers. It was a valid concern back then but now that they’re friends (and Geralt will even admit it) Jaskier doesn’t feel the need to always stay within arm’s reach. 

If he sees something interesting in a stall, he goes over to talk to them. When Geralt storms down the street, knocking preacher and beggar alike with the same distracted focus, Jaskier often finds himself following in the witcher’s footsteps and listening to all the aggressions hurled at his backside— and striking up a conversation with the creatively angry ones. He doesn’t mind considering the pitches of people working the corners, or humouring the random complaints of villagers and involving himself in the small politics of their lives. He finds more interesting stories waiting to be coaxed out from people who consider themselves uninteresting than from studying the classics again and again at Oxenfurt.

When Jaskier eventually tires of this or when the pangs of hunger and craving for liquor hit his body, he follows the stream of people complaining about mutants to find _his_ mutant, usually already halfway through a pitcher of ale or gearing up for a random contract. Today he finds Geralt on the way to do the latter; the witcher stands in front of the town’s notice board, facing forward without moving or breathing or blinking. 

Jaskier frowns and steps up in front of him, waving a hand in front of his vacant gaze. “Hello, Witcher!” He twitches like a dog in its sleep and then seems to see Jaskier. His features twist into an instant scowl. “Ah, so you’re alive. Good! It looks like you fell asleep on your feet here. Did you?”

Geralt shoves Jaskier’s shoulder and it collides with the board behind him. He hadn’t realized exactly how close they were— here in the town, it feels strange. He ducks out of range of Geralt, backing up and watching him regain his bearings. When he speaks, it sounds like he really did wake up only now. “There’s a contract. The man says he’ll meet me here after midday. I thought I’d just meditate for a few hours.”

Aghast, Jaskier stares right back at the drowsy witcher. Well, not drowsy— really, he’s alert as ever, but his eyelids are ever-so-slightly drooping. Actually, that might be because he’s squint-glaring at Jaskier. “Do you know, the first time you meditated in front of me I was beyond flattered. I was _touched_ , because I thought, here’s this great big hulking warrior of a man, sitting down in front of me and saying ‘I trust you’ and making himself entirely vulnerable without any fear.”

“I didn’t say I trusted you.”

“ _And here you are_ ,” Jaskier soldiers on, hands on his hips, “standing in the middle of a town filled with thieves and sots and barbarians, meditating in the middle of an open square. I mean, why not find an inn, enjoy breakfast, and then return here at your own time to track down… which one are you waiting for?” He narrows his eyes at the noticeboard. “ _‘My dear sweet Frou-Frou’_...”

Geralt snorts quietly, sounding like a horse. “Not hungry. And that one was posted weeks ago, don’t hold out hope for Frou-Frou.” He steps forward, jabbing his pointer finger against the notice promising the greatest reward.

“Olvephior,” Jaskier hums distractedly as he reads the message. It appears simple enough: this mysterious quest-giver needs help gathering potion ingredients from a grove outside town, and he has even gone so far as to list the desired plants. “Well, why wait for him to show up hours from now? Wouldn’t it be better to go get the herbs yourself, and then you can collect payment immediately and we can blow it all tonight on cold drinks and hot baths?”

“Hmm.” Geralt folds his arms over his chest, contemplating the idea. He finally reaches up and tears the piece of paper down, pocketing it. “If you want a bath too, you’re coming to help me pick flowers.”

Putting on a big show of deliberation, Jaskier finally nods and relents. “Lead the way, Witcher.” Geralt frowns, but before they leave he grabs the lost pet note too.

The grove is close to town. A woman with what little hair she has left tied up in a scarf points them in the right direction and they head out immediately. The trees here grow close together once they wander off the path, a thin canopy forming over their heads and making everything seem all the more magical. Prosaic sights like dry dirt and old roots look like beautiful, florid poetry in the making, and Jaskier takes note of several interesting mushrooms and other oddities as they make their way into the wood. Despite lacking Geralt’s witcher senses, he has romantic senses of his own, and he can already _hear_ the song of this forest.

If Geralt hears the song of this forest, he doesn’t let on, spine straight and swords at the ready as they explore. Roach wouldn’t have cared for the narrow new path they’re forging, so she’s back in town at the stable. Geralt doesn’t seem to mind having to brave the knee-high bracken and treacherously uneven map of tree roots without his steed. He just trudges on forward— spares the occasional moment to spy for danger around them— and then, seeing none, he continues to trudge on forward again.

Jaskier hums, chasing a wild and grassy virgin melody and trying to figure out if it’s actually new, or if he’s just echoing a song that used to make the tavern rounds five years ago. He wonders in bemusement if anyone would notice if he stole the tune. Maybe they’d enjoy the nostalgia, or maybe time would play tricks on their minds and manage to convince them that Dandelion had been the one to pen that song in the first place.

Geralt doesn’t stop walking. His posture doesn’t change. Jaskier sighs. _Geralt_ certainly wouldn’t notice his plagiarism.

They spend the better part of an hour exploring the forest, and right when Jaskier has figured out how to word the question ‘how do we intend on finding our way back into town’, they reach their destination. Geralt leads them through a copse of skinny, tall trees— flimsy enough that one good gust of wind could knock them over. The effect is unsettling; pleasant because they look idyllic and untouched, but dangerous in their unfamiliarity and the idea that if Jaskier were to suddenly tumble off a cliff here, he doubts that any of these skinny little trees would be of much help.

The thicket doesn’t lead them off a cliff. Instead, Geralt stumbles forward into a radiant space so bright he might as well have walked out of the woods and into a star. Jaskier follows, stymied, and his eyes take a moment to adjust from searching for spots of light in the forest.

Geralt is standing at the edge of a beautiful meadow, framed perfectly by tall ferns and trees on every side. It must be closer to mid-day now as the sun’s aim falls exactly down into the wild garden, and the flowers seem to crane towards its warmth. 

And the flowers— the flowers are like nothing Jaskier has ever seen before. Rather than the severely maintained palace gardens that caretakers must root through every day to find and eradicate weeds, here the wilderness has embraced the meadow and fortified it. Jaskier’s vision alights on herbs like hyssop and basil growing as high as his thigh, twined closely around bushes of unfamiliar flowers. As Dandelion, he feels shockingly at home here. He aches with it.

Geralt has a hand pressed to his chest and his lips are slightly parted; the untrained observer might mistake his expression for awe at the meadow. Jaskier is, unfortunately, the most expertly trained observer (decade and a half of field experience), so he mistakes it for no such thing. He sees the way Geralt’s jaw is tense even though his mouth hangs open, and more importantly, how his fingers are curled around his medallion. 

Thankfully, after a few tense moments, Geralt’s lips close firmly and he drops his grip as his shoulders sink incrementally. No threats here. Then he turns to Jaskier, who realizes he’s been caught staring at this grumpy old man instead of at the undeniably beautiful sight before them. Geralt’s eyebrow quirks. “Speechless?”

“Just waiting for your go-ahead,” Jaskier quickly recovers, indicating the meadow around them. Geralt rolls his eyes— since they both know full well Jaskier has a big ‘never waits for Geralt’s go-ahead’ complex— before forging a path through the flowers. Jaskier follows, trying only to tread in his footsteps and not disturb any plants unnecessarily. “What was item number one again? Knight’s… something or other?”

“Nosebleed,” mutters Geralt.

“Hm?”

“Staunchweed, knight’s woundwort, devil’s plaything… it’s got many names.” The witcher stops, bending both knees to lower himself to the ground. He plucks a long stem with feathery dark leaves and flat bunches of white flowers. “This. Pick extra, and we can keep it.”

The joy of hearing ‘we’ outweighs the irritation stoked by the order to work, and Jaskier sets himself to the task of following his instructions with less complaining than usual. It helps that Geralt’s medallion has yet to go off, so for once he actually seems relaxed. 

They pick milfoil and a variety of other herbs, some that Jaskier swears he’s never seen before in his life. Geralt uses his witcher senses to pick out the right ones and Jaskier trails behind him, pruning herbs until their bags are full. Then he starts plucking small flowers, whispering apologies to the meadow as he starts to fashion a gift for Geralt.

When the witcher sees it, he snorts. Then he realizes it’s for him, and he looks disgruntled. “You’re crazy if you think you’re getting me to wear that.”

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier begs, holding out the circlet of flowers in both hands like a fae on coronation day. “It took so long.” It took only five minutes.

Geralt’s whole body seems to twitch with the urge to slap the flower crown out of Jaskier’s grasp, but he finally relents, grunting and reaching forward. He places it atop his head, where it sits for all of two seconds before Jaskier bursts into giggles and Geralt tears it off.

“No— please— it’s fetching,” Jaskier chokes on air, laughing himself silly. Geralt, with an unusual rosy colour sitting high on his cheeks, shoves the flower crown deep into the recesses of his bag, undoubtedly ruining it. Jaskier can’t help but be flattered that he didn’t toss it away.

Their search for the last ingredient leads them deeper into the meadow right as the sun is shining directly down on them. Geralt identifies it first, and he forgoes the small knife he’s been using to prune herbs, dropping to his knees by the patch of tall flowers with wide red petals.

Jaskier follows suit, kneeling a few feet away and admiring the colour of the flowers. He reaches to pull one from its stem right as Geralt picks his own, and so they each pluck their different flower at the same moment.

Jaskier twirls the stem between his fingers, admiring the perfect sepals and petals, red with pink and orange at the center. It reminds him of a sunset, with white stamens shooting out and hanging strong in the still air. Enraptured, Jaskier says, “What’s the name of this one again?”

Or. He tries to say that, anyway. The words get stuck in his throat as he glances up at Geralt and sees the man already staring at him. His posture is tense and taut, and his formerly rosy skin is now almost ashen with fear. His eyes are bright, bright blue.

“What,” Jaskier says, eyes widening. _What._ Geralt reaches for him, but only to grab his pack and start rummaging around in it; Jaskier doesn’t give a damn if Geralt steals all his worldly possessions. He’s too busy trying to process those sapphire eyes, so similar to his own blue ones.

Geralt finally retrieves the small pocket mirror Jaskier keeps for ‘vanity’ on the road, although he wouldn’t call basic self-care vain. He thrusts it at Jaskier, dropping the flower in the process— his eyes stay blue. Jaskier opens the mirror, examining his own face with growing dread. Same old mouth. Same old wrinkles. Brand new golden eyes, staring back at him in the mirror with rapidly increasing concern and confusion.

Jaskier drops his flower too. His eyes stay yellow. He glances over at Geralt, who’s got _his_ eyes, and tries very, very hard not to panic. “Geralt? Do you know what this is?”

Any reasonable man would admit his ignorance and folly, pull Jaskier to his feet, and they could have a good laugh about it on the way back to town to collect payment and answers from the man that sent them on this fetch quest. Geralt of Rivia, despite what he’d like to believe, is _not_ a reasonable man.

They make it back to town in a quarter of the time that it took to find the meadow; Jaskier’s vision blurs so much that he wonders if Geralt has learned to channel Chaos into creating undetectable, lightning-quick portals. Then he wonders if Geralt just needs some kind of glasses, and when he asks this, his inquiry is met with a very brusque and blunt curse word that he’s sure Geralt would never use in less dire circumstances.

“Your eyes are still your own,” Geralt explains in an extremely patronizing voice as he drags Jaskier through the understory, crushing emergent plant life under their feet and crushing Jaskier’s nice new silken sleeve in one hand. Jaskier struggles to twist his wrist around in Geralt’s grip so that he might at least hold his hand. “I still have my senses about me.”

“Right, so, what did it do, then? Just… switched our eye colour? Should I feel lucky that my hair isn’t white?” Geralt offers no response, pulling Jaskier by his palm through the trees. “Geralt, do you have _any_ idea what sort of weird enchanted flower we messed with?”

“Yes,” Geralt growls, and then does not elaborate further. If this enchantment doesn’t kill him, Jaskier will.

They make it back to town unscathed, passing the same landmarks and people as Geralt hurries back to the noticeboard. Jaskier doesn’t stop to eavesdrop this time, but as they storm through he watches several heads turn to curiously observe them. 

Jaskier suddenly feels embarrassed about holding Geralt’s hand in such a public place— the idea that it might be misconstrued sends warmth shooting through his veins and heat to his face. He squeezes Geralt’s hand one last time before attempting to let go. Geralt ignores this, simply shifting his grip to hold Jaskier by the wrist once more.

Almost as if he can sense the bard’s discomfort, Geralt says quickly, before Jaskier can complain at all about the brutish treatment, “Checking your vital signs.”

“Wonderful,” Jaskier says, and then nearly collapses into Geralt as they skid to a stop in front of the board. He rights himself in time and then shakes the witcher off his arm, massaging his wrist by himself and making a bigger show of it than strictly necessary. “And now what? We just wait for Ollivander?”

“Olvephior,” Geralt corrects, fishing out the note. As it turns out, they’re right on time— as if on cue, a man in long robes with light armour steps forward from his place beside the sign. He’s handsome, if haggard; his beard is in desperate want of some grooming, but his arms and shoulders are wide for a magic user and his eyes are striking. His gaze is fixed on the note at first, but he seems to put two and two together quickly. “That you?”

“My,” replies Olvephior, whose voice is as charismatic as his appearance. “I didn’t expect my contract to be accepted so quickly. Are you a witcher, then?”

“No shit,” Geralt says, somewhat more brusque than his regular voice. He swings his pack around and produces the bundle of ingredients, sans one red flower. Olvephior pales, and Geralt produces the strange enchanted flower, holding it out to the man. “You could have fucking warned me.”

“Oh,” the mage starts, and then he finally notices Jaskier. He deflates as embarrassment sets in. “I’m— my, my sincerest apologies, I had intended to warn you of the danger before you set out. So, the two of you…?”

Geralt doesn’t seem inclined to answer the rest of that not-question, having resigned himself to glaring at Olvephior with barely-contained fury. So Jaskier steps in, waving a hand. “Hi, yes, the two of us. Jaskier here. Um, _what_ danger?”

Olvephior coughs, shaking his head. “Perhaps it would be best if we discussed this in my home,” he says, strangled.

“No,” Geralt growls. He throws out his arm to restrain Jaskier, as if he’d been moments from leaping towards this man or something. Jaskier stares at the back of his head, wondering again what the fuck is going on. Geralt doesn’t turn his neck at all, gaze still fixed on the mage. “Tell us here.”

“Well, knowing one another will make things easier, at least,” the mage mumbles. When no one responds, he shakes his head. “But never mind!” Finally reaching forward, Olvephior carefully avoids touching the red flower by wrapping his hand in the sleeve of his cloak. “This flower is called Lyciscae embarium, or more commonly, umm…” He looks at it dumbly for a moment before shoving it deep into his pocket. “The, ah. The. It’s, it’s stupid, really. I am very sorry, I _would_ have warned you—”

“What kind of potion requires this kind of thing,” Geralt growls as Jaskier demands, “What’s its common name?”

“It’s called the deflower,” Olvephior finally confesses, and his pretty face is turning a nice dark shade of red now. Geralt exhales, almost a sigh, as though this confirms his suspicions. “It’s very useful medicinally, actually, n-not only for its, um, inconvenient side-effect, but when making poultices… anyway, um. There’s a sort of enchantment brought on by holding embarium at the same time as another person, and breaking that enchantment requires...”

Jaskier has a sinking feeling he already knows. “Out with it.”

“A, a release of energy between the two people,” Olvephior blurts out, now unable to make eye contact at all. “Specifically, s-sexual energy.”

Geralt is silent now, stoic and fuming. Which leaves Jaskier to pick up the pieces and put them together, since he’s the sole person in this conversation apparently rational enough to question flower enchantments. “And, sorry… that’s the _only_ way to break it? I mean, you can’t just…” He wiggles his fingers. “Magic our eyes back to normal?”

“The change of eye colour is a sign that the two of you have been bonded by the curse.” The mage folds his arms over his chest, clearly uncomfortable. “If you do not fulfil the terms of the enchantment, you’ll… well, you’ll both…”

“We’ll die,” supplies Geralt, tone flat. “That’s it, isn’t it? I didn’t recognize the name embarium, but I’ve heard all the stupid sex jokes about the deflower. I know the story well enough— you fuck or else you die. Only I thought they were just dirty jokes.”

Even at stressful moments such as these, Jaskier has to appreciate the idea of Geralt overhearing ‘dirty jokes’, and remembering them; something about it sends a private thrill down his spine. He’ll have to write it into a naughty tavern song to show off the secret libertine side of everyone’s hero, the White Wolf. Except Geralt would skewer him, so that’s a bust.

Then he starts to think about what Geralt said, and his blood goes hot and cold at once. The idea of any sort of release between them is tantalizing, and something he’d give everything for, but… not like this. Not under pain of death. Jaskier inhales shakily, and watches Geralt stiffen in response. Those damned witcher senses...

Olvephior hangs his head in shame, and then reaches for his coin purse. “Here.” He hands over payment; about three times the already generous amount on the original contract. “It’s the least I can do.”

Growling again, Geralt takes the money and then shoves the herbs at him. Jaskier, head still buzzing, has enough clarity to feel bad for this mage. After all, it wasn’t _his_ fault they got into this mess. “Good luck with your potion, then,” he offers feebly, before remembering that he’s a bard who earns his living spinning words, and that he definitely has something more impressive to offer this sorrowful, beautiful man. “I apologize for inadvertently causing this, since if I had only listened to Geralt’s advice—”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” comes Geralt’s voice, low and angry and deep enough to make his toes curl in his boots. Before he can continue, the witcher’s thick hand lifts him up by his collar and drags him away.

Flirting comes naturally to Jaskier; it always has. Wooing specific people and wooing crowds are just different genres of the same medium, and even before he knew he wanted to be a bard, he knew how to coax the right reaction out of people. Seduction is a performance like any other. He allows genuine parts of himself to filter in, but he controls how much or how little of Julian, heir to the Count of Lettenhove, actually percolates into the performance. Concocting the perfect mixture of Jaskier and Dandelion is tricky— trying to figure out when to play sincere and when to play spurious. Fortunately, as it always has, it comes naturally.

When he first laid eyes on Geralt, all those years of experience and natural charms flew out the window of Posada’s cheapest tavern. He had certainly _tried_ it; he’d put on the usual airs, and approached the gruff White Wolf with the same bravado that any attractive young man would have. And what had he got in return for it?

Well, punched in the balls almost immediately, for starters. And to make matters much, much worse, he’d gone ahead and fallen head-over-heels for the thoroughly uncharming witcher. Right from their very first meeting.

For years following that encounter he still felt cautious about flirting with Geralt. Of course, he’d done it anyway at every chance, but something about his act felt horrifically dishonest. Jaskier would make some prurient joke about a ghoul or some other insensitive subject and when Geralt would hardly react, he’d only feel… nervous. Not the sting of being shot down, no, more of an ache. And on the rare occasion when his comments about sharing a bath had led to a quiet snort of laughter or a repressed smile from the man, well. Jaskier’s heart soared, and then his nerves felt worse than ever.

With time, Jaskier’s awkwardly put-on act for Geralt has faded almost entirely. They’re friends now, which requires a level of comfort around one another that simply doesn’t allow for anxious butterflies. He’s still continued to flirt and tease over the years, of course, but he knows Geralt now.

The feeling that he gets from the sex spell isn’t anything as dramatic as his blood boiling, or his brain uncoiling with the sole, burning need to touch Geralt. Instead, it just feels like Jaskier is as nervous as he was back when he met Geralt for the very first time. 

He keeps making awkward eye contact, and for some reason he can’t stop staring at Geralt’s upper arm. (More than the normal amount of staring, to be clear.) He suspects that the enchantment itself isn’t actually changing his feelings for his dearest friend, but that in fact, his nerves are from the prospect of having to _fuck_ said dearest friend. Tonight.

Alright, maybe his blood is boiling a little. No more than usual though; feeling a rush of lust and desire when he spends too long looking at Geralt is something Jaskier has become accustomed to, as well as fantasizing about how they might lie together. The problem is that his fantasies are always restrained to the months when Geralt is far away at Kaer Morhen, or the nights when they afford separate rooms, or a few times when Geralt is bathing off in some river and Jaskier finds a suitable place to stay out of sight and scent.

He wonders if Geralt can smell him now. If he can hear his pulse. Jaskier thinks about Geralt checking his vital signs, and then about Geralt taking a firm hold of his wrist, and then about several other things in rapid succession. 

He swallows, hard, desperate to change the subject before he implodes. “I know you value your long silences,” he tells Geralt, who has been stomping a few paces ahead of him, scaring off all the local chickens and children. “But if you and I really do have to… you know, do this thing, don’t you think we should discuss it first?”

So much for changing the subject, and so much for the easy rapport he’s built up with Geralt for too many years to remember. Jaskier winces, but when the witcher stops and pivots to Jaskier, he doesn’t seem enraged or disgusted. Unfortunately he doesn’t seem particularly titillated by the idea either; in fact, he seems amused. “It doesn’t have to work that way.”

Jaskier gawks. “What?” Geralt, maddening bastard of a man, just smiles. “Well, I— I mean, you heard Olvephior, with all his talk of us being _bonded_ , and, well, a release… you heard him!”

“We each have to climax. Doesn’t mean I have to touch you,” says Geralt, low and serious. The only thing belying his mischievous (horrible) nature is the slight smirk he’s still sporting, which, paired with the voice, is almost too much for Jaskier’s delicate sensibilities to handle. He wants to slap Geralt upside the head for being such a prick. He also very, very much wants to hear him talk about things like climaxes in that voice for hours on end.

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier scoffs, “because I’m supposed to know all these things, of course. The ins and outs of sex magic. Have you experimented around with it before? I just _bet_ you have.”

Geralt opens his mouth as if to reply, and then appears to think better of it. He regards Jaskier for another moment before turning to face forward again and head off. Jaskier could throttle him.

Somehow, they make it to the inn. It becomes apparent once they’re inside that the tavern is the main source of profit, not the lodgings upstairs. The barkeep seems surprised when they ask about a room before ale, only relaxing when Geralt clarifies that they very much do want ale too, and lots of it.

As Geralt sifts through Olvephior’s payment to fish out orens, Jaskier asks about the lack of tourist traffic through the town, and more importantly, if the bartender would be interested in live music as a supplement to their payment. She doesn’t shoot down the pitch immediately, which is a good sign, but her first comment is that “you’ve got quite stunning eyes, don’t you?”

Geralt huffs out a laugh, and that, paired with the reminder of their situation, is enough for Jaskier to abandon his dreams of playing here tonight. “Perhaps tomorrow night,” he mutters quietly as the barkeep heads off to grab them a room key and a pitcher. 

He doesn’t bother pointing out that if Geralt isn’t keen on sleeping with Jaskier himself, he shouldn’t be rude around other potential partners that could help work off the curse. Then again, even though Geralt is beyond handsome (especially now, with his borrowed blue gaze), he often has trouble finding women who aren’t scared off by the whole witcher thing. They could always find someone to share their bed, but coin would certainly ease the way— and thanks to Olvephior, they definitely have enough.

“If your plan is to visit the local brothel together, then we might as well book a room there,” suggests Jaskier, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible. “Unless you fancy stumbling back here afterwards.”

“Hmm.” Geralt glances over and his blue eyes meet Jaskier’s, and for a heated moment both of them sit in the knowledge that they’re picturing the exact same thing. That’s one interpretation of a release of energy between them; they could hold this exact same stare with one another while talented hands got them off. Or, better, they could get each other off. Jaskier’s mouth goes dry at the thought. Geralt speaks, pulling them both back to reality, “They won’t let us in like this.”

Jaskier examines his own outfit as the barkeep brings over their order, setting down the pitcher and two mugs in front of Geralt. They’re both a little dusty from travel, and from running through the woods, but surely the lovely ladies of the local establishment have seen worse? Jaskier knows he’s definitely seen Geralt look worse; a thin layer of grime and sweat is nothing compared to caked-on shit and guts.

“Would you please draw a hot bath for us?” intones the witcher. Jaskier nearly cracks his neck as his head shoots up, and he gapes at Geralt making a deliberately polite request and being deliberately (and luxuriantly) hygienic. Two firsts. 

The barkeep nods, accepting his money and heading off to do exactly that. Jaskier sputters, ready to go on a tirade about how it would have been wonderful to have this conscientiously clean version of Geralt around in the past on any number of occasions when he’d wandered in during a performance, covered head to toe in arachas gore. 

Before he can get even a single syllable out Geralt slides the pitcher towards him and picks up the two mugs and the key, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs. Stymied, Jaskier picks up the pitcher. The ale inside is far brighter than Geralt’s standard fare (salty, dark beer that never tastes good at first). In fact, Jaskier thinks this might actually be a jug of mead. He follows Geralt, trying hard not to spill a drop. 

“You don’t seem too worried about the prospect of death,” Jaskier calls up the stairs after his witcher, and a few other patrons glance in their direction but don’t appear overly interested.

“I’ll figure it out.” Geralt doesn’t turn around or even slow his ascent, so Jaskier hurries to stay close. “First, a bath.”

“A b— _Geralt_ , we don’t have time!”

“I’m in no rush,” the man replies as he heads into their room, leaving the door open behind him. Jaskier enters after, and places the jug down next to the mugs, kicking his shoes off beside Geralt’s swords and pack. 

Geralt excuses himself without any further explanation for his much-needed bath, and Jaskier contemplates strangling himself with his own lute strings. When it becomes clear that Geralt isn’t going to return and ravish him to save their lives, Jaskier relents and sits to pour himself a selfishly large serving of mead, muttering in his best impression of his cranky friend, “I will not suffer tonight sober.”

It’s easier to breathe with Geralt away from him, actually. Maybe the mead is more potent than Jaskier assumed it would be, because after only one glass of the honey-sweet drink he feels remarkably loosened. He almost feels ready to face the night, no matter what happens or how it ends. 

Even if it ends up with them on opposite ends of the sole bed in this room, staring each other down. Geralt reclined against the headboard, cock in his fist. Jaskier sitting on the very edge of the mattress, bare knees tucked underneath his bare body, slowly working himself over with his palm. 

Do they even have oil? Maybe Geralt will have some useful concoction in his pack. Maybe he won’t want to waste supplies so he’ll just spit on Jaskier’s hand and let that ease the way. Or maybe he’ll elect to cross the bed, pulling Jaskier close and tying his long hair up before using his mouth.

With a start Jaskier realizes he’s fidgeting, fingers pulling aimlessly at the hem of the tablecloth. His dick is throbbing, and he looks over to check that the door is closed before sliding his palm over it, contenting himself with the friction of fabric. He has to hurry because Geralt could come back from his bath at any second now. Soaked, and relaxed, and wearing nothing at all…

Jaskier groans and then pulls his hand away, shaking off the urge. “Come on, Dandelion,” he mutters to himself, crazed. If his life depends on having a release within the vicinity of Geralt, then he’d better not waste anything coming needlessly into his hand. He pours himself another glass, and takes a long draught, steadying his mind and body with great effort.

It’s a good thing he does, because Geralt bursts through the door a second later, very different from Jaskier’s fantasy. His chest and limbs are mostly dry; only his hair is still dripping water, hanging down dark and curly and clinging to his throat. He’s got a towel tied around his hips which is probably a good thing if Jaskier is meant to control himself. He does look more relaxed, though; almost languid as he strides over to the table and pours himself a glass. “You should bathe too.”

The fantasy-come-to-life is so attractive that for a second, Jaskier blocks out the bizarre and frankly rude thing that he says. When it sinks in, his jaw drops. “Have you somehow managed to forget that we—”

“I didn’t forget,” Geralt interrupts him. There’s that God-awful not-smile again, twitching on the edge of his lips, sparkling in his eyes. The next time Jaskier hears some bigot ramble about how witchers don’t have emotions he’s going to tell them that in fact, witchers do indeed have a wide host of emotions, but that they’ve just repressed all the ones that aren’t related to being a little shit. “We have time.”

It’s hard to deny a helpful suggestion from a six-foot walking sex dream come to life, but Jaskier does his best. “We don’t know that, actually, unless there’s something you know that you’re not telling me about your knowledge of sex curses. But alright. Fine. Fine!” He rockets to his feet, lifting his glass and draining half of it. “If I die in the bath, you’re going to be solely responsible for carrying on my legacy. You realize that, right? I fully expect to see you carrying around a lute and telling all the maidens some epic lie about my tragic ending, ’else I’ll haunt you for the rest of your days.”

“If you die in the bath, I’ll die too.” Geralt sips his drink mildly. “So hurry up.”

“Fine,” Jaskier repeats, and then realizes he’s smiling and schools his features into a frown. Why is he smiling? He shouldn’t be smiling. Now the witcher is watching him quizzically, still evilly amused, and Jaskier pulls a Geralt and storms out of the room without another word.

He returns, squeaky-clean and flushed pink from the water that had still been very nearly too hot. He can’t imagine how hot it would have been originally; he knows Geralt likes his baths scalding, but surely not enough to actually boil him alive. Or maybe he cast Igni on the water before Jaskier had returned; that would explain the heat.

Jaskier doesn’t think about the temperature of his bathwater too hard, or about the prior occupant who had shared the very same water. When he goes back into the room there’s a clean questionably-matched outfit awaiting him on the bed, which implies that Geralt went into his pack and picked it for him to wear. Geralt’s hair has mostly dried, still curly at the ends. His eyes are still blue, and he glances up from his dinner at Jaskier for only a moment before returning to the meal.

Jaskier frowns, lips pursing. He doesn’t comment on the food until he has changed into new clothes; if Geralt watches him do so out of the corner of his eye, they both pretend not to notice. When he finally manages to arrange the doublet and trousers (blue on green, really, Geralt, what is he? A landscape painted by a child?) into a somewhat presentable outfit, he walks over to the table. Then he finally sees the other plate of meat and bread and fresh salad, and realizes that Geralt ordered dinner for him too.

“So, what was the point of bathing,” Jaskier asks before thinking. He really ought to stop doing that, since speaking without thinking has led him into a thousand awkward moments with Geralt, and this is definitely one of those.

Geralt stares at him for a moment, puzzled, then at the food. In the same instant, they both realize they must have cleaned in different ways. Jaskier blushes with embarrassed anger, the anxiety from before surging back into life and twisting his stomach into nervous knots. Geralt just raises an eyebrow, and mercifully doesn’t add one of his patented useless grunts. He indicates the chair across from him. “Eat.”

Jaskier scowls but he is hungry, and now that the nice pleasant buzz of the mead has faded, the idea of grounding himself with good food like this is too appealing to ignore. He sits, and he begins to eat.

Geralt tilts his head to the right, watching Jaskier and chewing silently. Sharing meals in silence is their default mode, and has been for fifteen years. As the raconteur, it’s Jaskier’s job to fill the silence with stories unless he can woo a tale or two out of Geralt. But he doesn’t like to talk with his mouth full, and even though the witcher doesn’t give a rat’s ass about etiquette, Jaskier likes to think he appreciates the intimacy that breaking bread together creates.

Hence his surprise when Geralt breaks the silence. “So. You’re handling this whole… sex magic thing pretty well.”

To his credit, Jaskier does not choke. He wishes he had more mead to wash down his suddenly dry meat with, but it seems Geralt’s generosity didn’t extend to dinner _and_ more drinks. He swallows and then says, “Yes. Well. It’s my first time.”

Geralt hums. As always it sounds both condescending and uninterested, and the noise drives Jaskier into frustration instantly. His intent was to lead them into an informative conversation about if Geralt had used sex magic before, and why, and with who, and where, and how it had been, and what he liked, and then they could see where things went from there. 

But he’s already humiliated, and today the smug, presumptuous ‘hmm’ is too much to handle. Jaskier folds his arms over his chest, and spits back, “I mean, not all of us need aphrodisiacs just to get going. Some of us are able to find romantic partners the good old fashioned way, without any magic involved at all. I suppose that must seem boring to someone like you, who’s probably used all sorts of ‘sex magic things’ with all sorts of magical sex people. I’m sure that Yennefer woman had many more interesting tricks up her sleeve.”

Now Geralt’s pokerface shifts into annoyance, and something like fury flashes across it lightning-quick. He stands, arms flexing, and walks over to grab his swords. “I’m going to go check on Roach,” he hisses at Jaskier, though for his tone he might as well have cursed.

And with that, he storms out. Jaskier restrains himself from yelling after him about their death curse that Geralt seems to have entirely forgotten. He watches the door slide to a slow close, and then turns back to finish the rest of his food. He takes his time, savouring each bite and trying to pretend it doesn’t all taste burnt and bland in his mouth, warped by his worry for Geralt.

When their plates are empty and stacked, Jaskier spends a while fussing over his hair and then contemplates changing out of this strange outfit or ordering more ale. He decides against changing simply out of laziness, and he holds off on making any sort of decision about drinking until Geralt returns.

Geralt doesn’t return, clearly also taking his time. Jaskier crosses to their window to peer out and try to catch a glimpse of him, but the stable is out of sight and their rented room provides only a view of the dismal alleyway outside. There’s nothing to be done about it except go confront the man himself, then, and… apologize? 

Although his pride is ebbing away by the minute as regret and dread set in, Jaskier isn’t sure exactly what he should apologize for. The mention of Yennefer is probably a good place to start— Geralt himself has not brought her name up in conversation… well, _ever_ , but not in years.

Even though the day hasn’t yet fallen into night, the sky is dark grey with clouds threatening to cry. Jaskier has no desire to get caught outside in the rain so he hastens to the stables, only stopping short when he sees Geralt. Geralt, currently leaning forward into his conversation with a beautiful woman with long, braided hair, doesn’t seem to care much about the impending storm at all.

Jaskier’s heart aches with jealousy. He hates that it does; he wishes he could be impassive to the sight of Geralt flirting with some local farm girl, but tonight has been stressful enough already with the prospect of having to sleep with his best friend, especially since said best friend has been fairly nonchalant about the whole curse thing. This would all be easier if Geralt wasn’t so stupidly infuriating, or if Jaskier wasn’t so infuriatingly stupid about him.

Whatever Jaskier sees in the oaf is something that the girl must see too, as she opens the door to the stable and points inside. Geralt shrugs and Jaskier’s heart erupts. He wonders with sudden irrational fear if Geralt has already fulfilled his end of the deal, and had his own release of energy without Jaskier’s involvement.

Jaskier bolts forward out of the shadows, running up to them and interrupting their conversation. “Were you intending to sleep out here with Roach, Geralt? We have unfinished business.” He falters halfway through the question as Geralt turns, eyes flashing wide open with surprise— still very bright blue. Moreover, he doesn’t have a particularly satisfied air, and there isn’t even a single stalk of straw stuck anywhere on his outfit.

So that settles that. Jaskier breathes, not bothering to hide his relief. As for the matter of Geralt being annoyed with him… The man sighs, shaking his head. “Maybe you’ll know where it is. I was looking for... something, in Roach’s pack, and now it’s gone.”

The woman, who Jaskier is beginning to suspect might be a groom and nothing more, gestures once more into the stable. “Take a look for yourself again if you’d like,” she says, also sounding annoyed. She turns to leave, and Geralt heads inside to do exactly that.

“Erm,” Jaskier shuffles about at the entrance. A raindrop lands on his shoulder and he frowns, heading inside and closing the door behind them. “Whatever it is, is it really important right this moment? Is there no sort of time limit on, uh,” he waves his hands around his face, batting his eyelashes, “this?”

Ignoring his very important life-or-death questions, Geralt strides over to Roach, patting her neck in greeting. Jaskier watches in bemusement as he goes to search her pack for presumably a second time. Then he starts patting down the ground around her hooves, frowning deeply. “It wasn’t special, but it’d be a bitch to find another one.”

Jaskier huffs. “Another _what?”_

“Pipe,” Geralt says simply.

It takes far too long to process this, especially because Geralt has a tendency to send Jaskier’s mind spiralling down into the gutter. When he finally pieces together what Geralt means, he still can’t make sense of it; they’ve spent _years_ together! Even if they separate every winter and only reunite by chance, he certainly would have known if Geralt used a pipe. 

Hell, Jaskier remembers smoking at the same table as Geralt, in a dimly lit bar beside the river Ismena that had offered different kinds of indulgences. He’d offered the witcher some then, curious as to whether herbs could work on him. Geralt had simply waved him off and then sat beside him, breathing long and hard whenever Jaskier exhaled but never complaining about the thick smoke or the rich smell.

As it is, he’s shocked. “Hang on,” Jaskier finally splutters. “You _smoke_ —”

“I knew it,” Geralt interrupts, straightening as he rises to his full height so that he can be more intimidating while glaring at Jaskier. (Unnecessary. Not to say that he isn’t intimidating, but he hasn’t intimidated Jaskier in a decade.) “Out with it, bard. Where have you hidden it?”

“Hidden it? Why would I hide something like that?” Baffled, Jaskier shakes his head. “I had no idea you even smoked! I’ve never seen you smoke once in all our years of friendship, Geralt. Is this a new habit?”

The witcher hums, considering Jaskier. Finally, he makes a small noise of frustration and steps back. “I only do it when I’m stressed,” he confesses, eyes sliding closed as he comes clean. It’s rare to see him this vulnerable, and the sight confuses Jaskier more. “Really stressed. Which is why I’m looking for it now.”

“I’ve seen you more stressed than this before.” Before he can begin to detail all the adventures that they’ve been on that could count as stressful— stressful to the point of harrowing, terrifying, death-defying, choose your adjective and Jaskier will spin you a song— Geralt gives up. He returns to the ground to continue his search.

This whole adventure is very silly, really. Jaskier is unsure if it even warrants a composition of its own, although there are several good Geralt-related words that rhyme with _deflower:_ sour, dour, glower… the eleventh hour, if they don’t hurry up and get on with it.

Maybe Jaskier would feel more sympathy towards Geralt if the man was showing any concern for their current situation. If they’re going to die if they don’t experience some sort of lovemaking together before dawn, isn’t the best idea to drain some very strong drinks and crash into each other? Even if they never speak of it again, at least they’ll stay alive— and when Jaskier does die someday, he’ll die knowing what Geralt’s like in bed. Everyone’s a winner!

Something about Geralt’s demeanour has shifted since their impromptu dinner together, but Jaskier can’t pin down exactly what it is, which frustrates him. He finally breaks the silence with a sigh. “Can’t you wait for later?”

Geralt doesn’t look over. “You aren’t going to die if you don’t stick your dick in something in the next hour, Jaskier.”

“You don’t know that!” Geralt ignores the accusation and continues his search, now frowning darkly. Jaskier leans against the damp wooden wall of the stable and tries not to panic, focusing on his breathing and on the rainfall outside. 

It would be romantic if he was stuck in here with the love of his life, forced to wait out the storm while exploring each other’s bodies... If only the love of his life was anyone other than the stubborn asshole digging around in mud like a pig.

“I will steal one hundred pipes for you from all the finest carpenters in Novigrad,” swears Jaskier, “if you just… stop looking for right now, so that we can make some sort of plan.”

This actually appears to have some effect on his witcher, who rises again. His scowl darkens. “How did you know it was from Novigrad? You _did_ take it.” Having answered his own question, Geralt strides forward, storming up to Jaskier. Glower is definitely the best rhyme to describe him as he demands, “Where have you hidden it, bard?”

“I haven’t,” Jaskier insists, trying to ignore how lovely and deep Geralt’s voice sounds when he’s mad like this. “You aren’t thinking straight, Geralt. Probably from that— from the deflower! It must be having some effect on you.”

“I’m thinking perfectly straight,” Geralt retaliates. He hasn’t stopped moving and now they’re face to face, and Jaskier can take a moment to admire his own beautiful blue eyes. Geralt wears them well, even if it’s disarming to see him without his golden cat eyes. “Are you not thinking straight, Jaskier? Are you feeling an abnormal urge to fuck me right now?”

“Well,” Jaskier stammers, “no more than usual,” and Geralt dives at him; specifically, he dives right towards his trousers. Which is all well and good— it’s so well and good that Jaskier could scream his triumph to the heavens— until he realizes that Geralt is trying to pick his pockets looking for his fucking pipe. 

Then he wants to scream for an entirely different reason, and he shouts, “I do not have _your fucking pipe!”_ Jaskier shoves Geralt’s shoulders away before the man can divest him entirely of his dignity, and either this catches Geralt off-guard or Jaskier harbours some secret strength unbeknownst to either of them because he shoves Geralt hard enough to knock him over.

Geralt, never one to lose a fight, takes advantage of his proximity to Jaskier’s waist to grab him and pull him down. They land together in the muck and dirt, horses braying behind them as if to cheer them on. Jaskier pays the horses no mind, desperately trying to free himself of Geralt’s sound grip. 

He fails and ends up astride Geralt’s chest, pinning him down quite effectively. Or so he thinks, anyway, until the witcher uses his grasp on Jaskier’s previously nice doublet and flips them over. Then Geralt ends up between his legs, grunting with exertion as he keeps a hand on each of Jaskier’s shoulders. 

His medallion hangs down, dangling above Jaskier’s nose. Jaskier could lift his head and bite down on the silver if he wanted. He settles for glaring at Geralt, whose blue eyes are impossible to glance away from, even now. Even as they’re having a stupid tussle over a stupid pipe in a foreign stable. 

He can only imagine how his own face must look right now, desperate and frustrated. Something in his expression must warn Geralt’s stone-cold heart and strike an emotion in the emotionless man, because when the witcher speaks again, his tone is even deeper than before. Sapped of all anger, it’s barely a murmur. “Jaskier.”

Or at least, _Jas_ is as far as he gets before Jaskier decides that if he hears one more word out of Geralt about his fancy Redanian pipe, he’s going to commit witchercide. He kicks at Geralt’s ankle with his own and slams his arms into the broad wrists holding him down; the element of surprise works in his favour as Geralt has the advantage in every other way. Jaskier slides out from underneath him, shoving the man and his medallion away.

Predictably, Geralt doesn’t let him get very far. Before Jaskier can climb to even footing there’s a hand around the meat of his thigh yanking him back down onto the ground, and he stumbles right back on top of Geralt. Geralt somehow managed to roll around and up onto his knees, but Jaskier knocks him down again and their squabble continues. 

They’re going to need to bathe again after this if they’re going to head anywhere, let alone somewhere to seek out company. Their clothes and hair are stained dark with mud. Geralt smells like a horse on a normal day, but right now the distinction is really, really tricky to sort out. Jaskier is close enough that he can figure it out, though; he can detect the scent of his witcher, his sweat and anger and the last remnants of soap.

A noise interrupts them as the door to the stable opens, and Jaskier realizes that he really is shoving his face into Geralt’s neck to chase his scent. It’s an extraordinarily weird and witchery thing to be caught doing, so Jaskier pulls away and relents. Geralt’s hands are still on his waist and his shoulder, and his knee is brushing up against the side of Jaskier’s hips.

A voice calls over, sounding quite meek, “Sirs, umm… is there some sort of problem?”

Panting heavily, Geralt shakes his head. He drops his grip on Jaskier, who sighs and climbs up to his feet. His heart is racing and he hopes against hope that Geralt can’t hear it. When Jaskier speaks, his voice is a little less steady than he would prefer but he still manages his charming self. “No, no problem here. We’re terribly sorry for our behaviour, my friend here is just under a tremendous amount of stress tonight and decided to channel it by acting like a child. My sincerest apologies— to you, and the horses.”

The young man at the door, dressed similarly to the girl they saw before and thus probably the stable groom, nods with great uncertainty. Jaskier beams, flashing his signature best Dandelion smile, and then turns to Geralt for confirmation.

When he finally looks back down at Geralt, the man blanches. Jaskier can’t puzzle out why— not until he realizes he’s staring into the witcher’s natural yellow eyes, and then he freezes too.

That’s certainly one way to release energy together.

Geralt doesn’t say another word about his pipe. He doesn’t speak at all until they’re in the safety of their room, picking straw out of their hair and changing into bedclothes.

Jaskier, very familiar with having to break the silence between them, finds it harder than usual. He waits until they’re settled on the bed for the night and the candles have been extinguished so that he can borrow the bravery of darkness. When they share a bed like this, it always feels too small. Right now, for the first time in fifteen years, Jaskier wishes the bed was just a little narrower so that he could lean up against Geralt and try to hear his heartbeat, to divine his thoughts.

He’ll have to settle for using his words. When Jaskier speaks, he realizes he’s been silent since the stable too. It’s strange; on a regular day, he has no problem chattering away to fill the space between them. Right now it feels like his want for Geralt is so prodigious that he finds himself scared to use too many words. Jaskier finally decides on a simple statement. “You didn’t.”

The reply comes almost instantly, and Jaskier turns his head to watch Geralt’s lips move in the dark. “No.” Jaskier already knew that there had been no climaxing on Geralt’s end; he would have seen, and smelled, and felt it. The confirmation is strangely upsetting to hear anyway. The witcher shifts. “You didn’t either.”

“No, I didn’t.” _Pity,_ Jaskier very nearly adds, and he only manages to stop himself by biting the tip of his tongue so hard it hurts. It’s dark, but Geralt makes no movement to look at him. Jaskier supposes that he doesn’t have to, what with those uncanny witcher senses. “I thought the mage said that we had to.”

“Hmm.”

“Well.” Jaskier stops trying to see Geralt’s dim silhouette and turns back to stare at the ceiling. For a wordsmith and storyteller, he’s doing a pretty shit job coming up with the right words here. But he’s already told Geralt a thousand times over the course of their long friendship about the fire in his blood that burns for the witcher, and about how nice it’d be if Geralt ever took a night off from the Path to focus on ramming his longsword into Jaskier, and then maybe Jaskier could reciprocate the favour. 

He’s suddenly exhausted— not from their relatively easy day, but from the years of wearing his heart on his sleeve and making his feelings known. If Geralt wanted him, he would have said something by now. Jaskier knows this, and has known this for a very long time. It doesn’t help his fragile heart feel any better.

“How lucky for us to have found the only loophole in a sex curse,” he mutters to Geralt and the ceiling. Neither respond, but Jaskier can’t resist continuing. He doesn't even try to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “What trailblazers we are, discovering new magic cures all on our own just so that we don’t have to have sex. What a blessing. What an exciting story for my next song.”

He figures that might get a rise out of Geralt, but even the threat of a ballad like that doesn’t garner any sort of reaction. Geralt’s eyes have slipped shut, and Jaskier groans softly at the sight. Of course he fell asleep; he doesn’t have a care in the world right now. He probably feels like he dodged a flaming arrow by beating the curse another way, thus avoiding the need for any deflowering at all.

Jaskier stares at the ceiling for a very long time, listening to the rain until it lets up. He shares his last conscious thought with Geralt, laughing bitterly enough for both of them. “This whole thing is actually quite anticlimactic.”

After that trip together, things continue— not as normal, but they continue. Time marches on even when they don’t have a good excuse to hook up with each other, and if Jaskier finds himself eyeing Geralt curiously when they veer off the Path to bathe in rivers or to track down particularly fascinating monsters, well. That’s his own business to deal with, and so he needn’t involve Geralt at all.

They leave the town, and leave Olvephior. Jaskier half-expects Geralt to bring up the entire debacle on the road— perhaps he’ll lecture Jaskier about the dangers of holding strange flowers, or of trusting strange mages. But the days and nights pass without incident, and Jaskier eventually has to accept that he isn’t going to be lectured by Geralt about his foolishness. He doesn’t have a good explanation for his lack of disappointment.

Geralt hardly speaks to him at all, really. For the first few days of travel they talk only when it’s necessary; Geralt doesn’t say a word as he impales some poor vermin on a spit to serve as their dinner. He stays quiet when Jaskier plays, strumming his lute and trying to pluck words from the cold, vast wilderness around them. (Trying and failing.) He doesn’t even make a peep when they bathe together— well, not _together_ , but they’re in the same river, aren’t they?

On occasions like that, they undress with a purposeful lack of eye contact, keeping their hands and gazes to themselves with the same misery. At least, Jaskier would like to believe that they share the same misery. In reality, he has no evidence at all that Geralt is harbouring anything towards him other than hard-earned tolerance. Even when they curl up to sleep next to one another, sharing bedrolls for warmth, calves and thighs and other parts all pressed together just like how lovers would… Geralt says nothing.

Jaskier tires of it quickly. If he’d wanted a companion bound to silence he would have travelled with Roach alone. Geralt has never been talkative, but he has also never held silence like this for so long. He usually makes noises; Jaskier is fluent in the language of witcher-noises by now. He can easily interpret ‘hmm’s as ‘Why, what a fine point, Jaskier, if I didn’t have a stick up my ass I would surely agree with you aloud but as it is, please settle for my casual humming and know that I am restrained by my own anxious behaviour’. But Geralt doesn’t even casually hum, apparently too busy listening to the sounds of the forests and passing monsters to form any sort of response to Jaskier at all.

As a result, he can’t dismiss the tension building in his body. Jaskier first noticed the tension on their second night away from town, when Geralt had wandered off to hunt or cleanse himself in some stream or some shit like that. Jaskier had opted to take advantage of the privacy and take himself in hand, but it had been a fruitless (and seedless) endeavour. Though he’d been alone, his mind had been clouded with thoughts of his cruelly silent companion. And even when he’d tried to bastardize those thoughts and turn his mental image of Geralt into some fantasy, Jaskier had failed. The tension sits high in his shoulders, keeping his breath short with worry and his prick taut but unwilling to spill. He had ended up frustrated and more tense than before, with a strange pain in his back as though his body was failing to understand the troubles on his mind.

Now the tension has grown insurmountable and impossible to ignore. Jaskier finds himself stretching and flexing as they walk, like how a dancer would move through the forests. Geralt takes note of this, of course, because he is the most irritating person on the continent. He doesn’t call attention to it until the third day, when he interrupts Jaskier mid-walk. He doesn’t turn around, and his voice betrays no emotion— just flat stress. “You walk like a man who just got fucked.”

The sentence knocks Jaskier out of his tension with astonishment, and then panic sets in like an old friend. Still, even while trying to correct his walk and his fucked-ness, Jaskier manages, “Excuse me?”

“You… I don’t know,” Geralt mutters. Every word comes with great difficulty. Jaskier wonders if the Trials of becoming a Witcher include hours and hours and hours of small talk. That might explain why Geralt finds it so torturous now. “You wobble.”

“I do not wobble,” Jaskier protests and fastens his hands to his hips with the air of a man sturdy enough to be a cleric. “Why are you even paying attention to the way I walk?”

“I’m not,” Geralt contradicts himself readily. Jaskier would swear that he’s affixed a mirror to Roach’s ears or something; otherwise, he’d have no way of looking back. He certainly isn’t in the habit of glancing behind himself to look at the bard. “You’re just wiggling a fuck of a lot.”

“Well,” Jaskier huffs. “I’m sorry if the way that I walk is an inconvenience to you. I’ll try to march forward, straight as an arrow.”

“Hmm,” replies Geralt, dry as usual. The humming calms Jaskier a weird amount, and he feels strange about it after the fact. There’s no reason that a response as boring as _‘hmm_ ’ should kickstart any positive emotion in his mind. Really, it’s messed up that he’s been able to train himself to interpret all the different sorts of ‘hmm’s. Before Jaskier can embark on a completely illogical rant about this, though, Geralt continues, “You might fare better if you learned to ride.”

“I know how to ride,” Jaskier combats easily. He’s never been good at sports but knocking back Geralt’s mean retorts requires no athletics and no talent but a sharpened wit. “The problem is that the daft prick I’m travelling with refuses to let me climb onto his horse with him.”

Trailing behind Roach like this means that Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s face, but he thinks he _hears_ a smile at that. “Get your own horse.”

“I’m sure that you’d find some problem with any mount I selected,” Jaskier grumbles. “ _That one’s too short for you, bard. That one’s too tall for you, little bard._ ” Ignoring the fact that Geralt has never called him little bard before, Jaskier soldiers on, “ _You ride that horse like a man who just got fucked._ ”

Geralt ignores this bait and Jaskier resigns himself to his fate. They keep walking in relative silence, accompanied only by the noise of Roach’s hooves and Jaskier’s heavy breathing. Finally, Jaskier is the first one to cave, dashing forward and glancing up to try to steal a look at Geralt’s face. “And by the way, witcher, how would you have any idea what I look like while I’m getting fucked?”

So he might be coming on a bit strong. So what. Geralt turns in his saddle to peer down at Jaskier, expression neutral, and Jaskier’s heart skips a beat that he hopes the witcher can hear. Finally, Geralt replies, sounding neutral-disappointed, “I can imagine.”

And doesn’t _that_ set off the tension in Jaskier’s body all over again! _Has_ Geralt imagined, he wonders? When they part in the winters, or fail to find one another in the summers, he thinks of the witcher more often than might be considered healthy— especially given that they aren’t in any sort of relationship beyond strange friendship. On lonely, cold, snowy nights, when there’s nobody near to share an uncomfortably hard and small bedroll, do Geralt’s thoughts fly to his companion the same way Jaskier’s thoughts do? 

Jaskier doubts it, given that Geralt has never brought this up in their many years of friendship, but the idea is still… It’s still something. Unbidden, he thinks about riding; while he might not be an expert in the saddle like Geralt, Jaskier still knows how to ride. He’s sure Geralt could support his weight with only one hand. They could even find an obliging wall, or a furtively narrow alleyway; with incentive like that, Jaskier could easily ride for _hours._

Geralt raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything more, leaving Jaskier to his own secret fantasies. Somehow the lack of response is ten times more irritating than usual, and Jaskier is too annoyed to speak with Geralt again for the next few hours.

One not-fun result of not hooking up with each other is that Geralt gets mean. Jaskier doesn’t blame him, not entirely— he’s been doing his best to rile the witcher up, but in his defence, he secretly suspects Geralt of doing the same to him. They’ve been fighting more than usual, tearing into each other at even the slightest provocation. 

Silly things bring it on now. Jaskier will make an incorrect assumption about Geralt’s mood and blurt out some brash comment, and that’ll drive them into an argument that lasts all day. Or Geralt will insist that they take some long path through unforgiving territory, walking on stones so hard that every new step is torturous, just so that he can avoid some hut where he knows someone used to live fifteen or thirty years ago.

Geralt talks to him less overall, and when he does it’s dismissive and patronizing or aggressive and direct like he’s itching for a fight. Jaskier understands because he feels the same way; he wonders if Geralt has been poking fun at him like this in some insane pretense disguising his flirting, or if the embarium really had a strong negative effect on both of them. 

Jaskier doesn’t feel any differently about Geralt, all things considered. He wanted to sleep with Geralt before they touched the same flower, and he wants to sleep with Geralt now. The only difference is that he now knows Geralt would sooner suffer death than lie with him. And even despite that knowledge, Jaskier _still_ can’t stop himself from flirting.

They travel together; Geralt bouncing along on Roach’s back, and Jaskier walking for so long that his feet become accustomed to the numbing pain of stones. When they pass stray monsters they fall into their regular roles. Jaskier takes command of Roach, readying himself for the moment when Geralt slips up and suffers injuries as a result. He can identify all the different witcher potions now, and he’s even sniffed a few of them just to try to discern the ingredients.

Geralt never does slip up; they encounter wargs and elemental monsters and strange poisonous Coccacidium plants (not as fun as the deflower). But the most that ever happens is a particularly vivid and creative curse when a monster named Shrieker swipes across his midsection, leaving a gaping wound.

Jaskier swears by a less-than-family-friendly part of Melitele, and he reaches into Roach’s saddlebag to try to retrieve some solution. Geralt cuts the creature’s head off with his sword in his free hand, which is pretty much the hottest thing Jaskier has ever seen in his whole life. Still, he doesn’t allow the sight to distract him, securing the correct potion and then dashing up to Geralt’s side. “Oh, fuck,” he babbles unhelpfully, pressing the vial into Geralt’s hand. “Fucking fuck, fuck, shit. You’re— that’s a lot of blood, dear witcher.”

“I’m not blind,” Geralt wheezes, keeping his eyes firmly shut as he casts about for the bottle. His hands collide into Jaskier’s outstretched fist and he takes the potion in one hand, keeping his grip strong as he holds Jaskier’s hand with the other. “Or stupid.”

“Right, of course,” Jaskier snarks, unable to help himself even as Geralt bleeds to death. “Nothing stupid about charging a cockatrice all by yourself.”

Geralt drinks the foul concoction, and if it tastes as bad as it smells and looks, his face doesn’t betray that. He only grimaces for a fraction of a second, grip tightening on Jaskier’s hand. Then he seems to realize that they’re holding hands, golden eyes opening so that he can stare down his bard. “That’s my job.”

“Right,” Jaskier scoffs. “Of course. It’s your job to get yourself killed by some giant bird whose father fucked a dragon.”

Geralt softens. “It is.” He brushes his thumb over Jaskier’s knuckles and Jaskier thinks he might very well drop dead right here on the road, one hand still on Roach’s saddlebag. Has anyone ever been killed by handholding before? He thinks he’d be a good candidate to herald in the idea, seeing as he’s a colossal idiot with an unreasonably romantic heart.

They drop their grasp on one another’s hands, and they don’t die.

When they stop by a stream so that Jaskier can wash the grime from his body and Geralt can cleanse himself of all the dried blood, Geralt starts to search through his bag and then lets out a curious, unfamiliar noise.

“What,” Jaskier replies hotly, trousers already neatly folded on the riverbank. He’s sitting on a rock to wash his feet off first, and while he doesn’t think his calves are too scandalous, maybe Geralt expects some extra muscle or something from him. “So now you’ve got…”

The unnecessarily combative words die in his mouth as he glances over to see Geralt, who is definitely not ogling him. Geralt’s focus is on the bag in front of him, and more importantly, on the small wooden object in his hands. Jaskier squints, trying to make out what it is— then the realization hits him all at once. It’s Geralt’s pipe, finally making a reappearance after so long.

“Ha,” Jaskier says, voice weaker than it ought to be. “So it was in your bag all along!”

“Mm,” replies Geralt, or— _doesn’t_ reply Geralt, since that’s not really a reply at all. Jaskier sighs and returns to bathing, and when Geralt starts smoking he doesn’t ask to share.

It starts to feel like their situation is nearing some sort of conclusion when they arrive at the next town, both bereft of words after so long spent on the road. Even the livelihood of the townspeople and the allure of new stories and connections hold little sway for Jaskier, who just feels bitter and drained. One can only flirt with a brick wall for so long, and he feels like he’s right at the end of his rope with Geralt.

Geralt visits the town’s blacksmith to ensure that his swords are in peak condition, muttering something about a shortage of oil and powder. Jaskier takes his lute and strums around town, keeping an eye out for any curious listeners. Busking isn’t as fun as performing somewhere with a roof over his head and a guaranteed room for the night, but sometimes people are more inclined to toss him a coin when they only hear a small selection of his solo repertoire.

A young boy in rags pays him for his performance with eager eyes and ears, and even though that eagerness won’t earn Jaskier his dinner, the attention is wonderful as always. Jaskier spins him a song about an urchin who rises above his station and saves a damsel in distress; a little offensive to damsels and to urchins, perhaps, but it’s easiest to fall into clichés when he’s improvising off-the-cuff. 

By the end of the ditty the boy is accompanied by a small crowd, who all seem eager to hear more. Jaskier obliges them, darting through the crowd as he strums his lute, singing epic tales of heroes and monsters. He doesn’t _exclude_ Geralt, exactly, but he doesn’t make any particular effort to call attention to the witcherness of the heroes in his lyrics.

“You’re the one what sings that song about that witcher fella,” a townswoman declares as his song draws to a close. “Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” Jaskier nods. “I have lots of other songs, though— my talents aren’t _entirely_ limited to chronicling the adventures of the White Wolf. I don’t suppose you’d like to hear a song about a gorgeous elf named Ettarial instead…?”

“Sing us a witcher song,” the boy begs, and the others all nod in hopeful agreement.

He sighs, “Fine,” and then plays a new but familiar chord. “Fine. _When a humble bard graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia…”_

By the time his songs are done the sun is directly above them, and Jaskier bows out of a fourth encore, expressing how he would actually like to spend his hard-earned coin on some lunch. He finds the local inn in no time, and when he enters he sees his White Wolf already posted in the corner, nursing a tankard of ale. Geralt’s eyes are fixed on him without glancing around or flinching; Jaskier wonders if Geralt smelled his scent. He shudders at the thought, then wonders if Geralt can sense that too.

_Of course not. He’s not a God, he’s just a very, very stubborn and extremely unlikable man._

After a detour at the bar to pick up his own tankard and order some food for the pair of them, Jaskier approaches his travelling companion. “How was the smith?”

“Sharp as ever,” Geralt replies. Jaskier would interpret that as a joke if it had come from anyone in the world besides Geralt. “Shall we get food?”

“I ordered us lunch.” Jaskier sips his ale, holding the cup in both hands— Geralt watches him drink but does not comment. “However, I haven’t asked about lodging yet. The people here seem quite friendly; they’d probably be amenable to a performance tonight.”

The witcher mirrors Jaskier, taking a draught from his own drink. When that’s finished, he licks his lips and then sets the heavy tankard down onto the table. “I already paid for our rooms.”

Rooms! With an S! Never before has a pluralization seemed so important. Jaskier doesn’t want to call attention to the distinction so he suffers in silence, palms and fingers curling around his jug of bitter ale. Geralt continues to stare at him, obviously expecting some sort of response. Finally Jaskier says, “Thank you, Geralt. I’ll have to give you some of my profits from tonight.”

Geralt inclines his head before breaking eye contact to glance away. Jaskier keeps staring at him, trying to divine what on the continent could have possibly possessed him to pay for _separate rooms_. It’s a well-established fact at this point that they share a room, and often a bed, to save money. While they aren’t at their most desperate right now, they’re not exactly rolling in gold either. The decision to take separate rooms should have been a joint one. 

Except, of course, Jaskier understands _perfectly_ why it wasn’t a joint decision. Bitterness washes over him that has nothing to do with the ale. 

If Geralt can pick up on his moods through those witcher senses he gives no indication of the fact. He doesn’t move at all, in fact, and Jaskier could almost believe him to be meditating if not for the hand curled tightly around his tankard and how tense his shoulders are.

They only break the silence and stillness when a stranger approaches their table with a desperate look in her eye. “You’re that witcher,” she accuses, and both Geralt and Jaskier steel themselves for the oncoming prejudice.

“Yes,” Geralt answers as simply as he can. His teeth are practically bared already, making him look like a vampire— not a real one, but a fantastic one from some story.

The confirmation seems to cause the woman great relief, as she sighs and shakes her head. “It’s perfect timing, you showing up here. My husband’s sister’s disappeared in the night only two days ago, and we’re both worried sick about her. She’s not the type to go running off in the night, especially not now… she’s with child.”

“Ah.” Although Geralt’s face shows no sign of it, after years of decoding witcher noises Jaskier can correctly interpret this to mean ‘ _fucking fantastic’._ “When and where was she last seen?”

“Well, she works here, and she was working the night she disappeared, so… behind the bar? Nobody’s heard or seen anything from her since then, and a couple people have gone out looking but nothing’s turned up.” Geralt hums thoughtfully, and the woman seems to read this as some sort of bargaining tool. “We— we don’t have much money, but you’d be welcome to all of it if you helped bring her home. I can’t afford to hire the local farmhands to go out looking every night, and they’re superstitious as anything so they’re all worried that if something happened to Agnes, they’d be in danger too—”

“It’s fine,” Geralt promises, climbing to his feet. “Sit-sit here. There’s food on the way. I’ll go out looking for Agnes now.”

“Oh,” the woman staggers, clearly not having expected this kindness. “Oh, thank you! You’re a lifesaver!”

“Not yet.” Geralt nods to her, and then to Jaskier. Without any further ado he heads out, leaving Jaskier to share lunch with this strange, grieving woman. She’s understandably hesitant to take the empty seat and drink Geralt’s backwash, and she stays standing, nervously wringing her hands out.

Jaskier sighs. “You’re not with child, are you? You look like you could use a drink.”

“Aye,” the woman agrees nervously, and then when Jaskier picks up Geralt’s abandoned tankard and passes it to her, “Yes, aye. I could use a dozen.”

“You know what.” Jaskier leans forward. “I think we can manage that.”

The next few hours blur together, wonderful and embarrassing and expected for the amount of liquor he consumes. Jaskier gets to know Maud, Agnes’ sister-in-law, quite well. Not intimately, unfortunately— she seems far too stressed about Agnes’ disappearance and also too deeply in love with her husband, whose name Jaskier never catches. He forgets most of the things Maud tells him, even though he listens to every single one of them with the enraptured focus of someone who makes his living telling stories.

Maud calls him out on that, actually, between the sixth and eighth drink. (They stopped keeping count some time after they’d finished their meals, and it seems silly and pointless to start again now that they’ve lost track.) “You,” she accuses, jabbing a finger in Jaskier’s direction, “are a _bard_.”

“Yes,” he tells her, solemn as a pallbearer. “Yes. I am a bard.”

“No, you’re the bard,” Maud declares before gesturing madly in the air. If they were playing charades, Jaskier might guess that she means to say something like ‘ _orchestral conductor’_ or ‘ _having a seizure’_. “ _The_ bard. You’re _his_ bard.”

“Hang on.” Jaskier shakes his head, trying to break through the fuzzy haze of alcohol. “Hang on. Whose bard? The gods’ bard?”

“No, you pompous prick,” Maud laughs. “His bard. The witcher’s bard.”

“Ah.” This is not the first, or fourth, or even hundredth time Jaskier has heard himself described in such a way. Still, given recent events, it sits differently with him. “I’m not his bard. He wishes I was his bard!”

“Ha!” Maud claps his shoulder, still laughing uproariously. Jaskier feels a deep, unshakable affection for the woman. He thinks he shall list her in his will. “ _You_ wish you were his bard!” Never mind— he’s never trusted anyone less in all his years of living.

“Nope,” and then, more convincingly, “no! I’m not, don’t, I don’t wish anything like that. If I had wishes, I’d probably use them to get rid of Valdo, and then I’d be horribly punished for it and brought to a sexy, evil mage’s house and have to deal with all that rubbish again!”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” Jaskier lets his thoughts of the sexy, evil Yennefer drift away with his next breath. It’s as easy as anything. “ _Nothing_. I don’t belong to Geralt, and he doesn’t belong to me.”

“I didn’t say any of that,” Maud points out. Jaskier squints. Hadn’t she at least implied some of it? “But I don’t think it’d be a bad thing if you, you know. If you did. Who cares?”

“Who cares,” Jaskier repeats stupidly, before realizing that _he_ is who cares. He cares very much; so much that some days he worries that it might eclipse his common sense. It probably says something very bad about him that his worst fear is Geralt finding out exactly how much he cares, and alienating him as a result. He doesn’t think he could stand to be alienated— not again. “Not me. I don’t care!”

“Yes you do,” Maud taunts. And to think, Jaskier was going to name this woman in his will _._ “You do care. That’s the curse of all artists. You have to care, otherwise the art you make isn’t going to be any good at all.”

Choosing to take the entirely wrong conclusion away from this, Jaskier grins and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You think I’m good?”

“I didn’t say that,” Maud scoffs. “I haven’t even heard you sing for myself. How’m I supposed to know if you’re good?”

“Oh,” Jaskier pouts. Then— “ _Oh!”_ and he rockets to his unsteady feet, reaching for his lute and strumming a familiar tune.

Unimpressed, Maud asks, “Aren’t you a little drunk to be performing?”

“I’ve been much drunker than this and still put on an excellent show,” Jaskier informs her, playing another chord. The barkeep looks approving, if dubious; they’d probably prefer some entertainment to another pair of useless drunkards taking up a table in their inn. “It’s my job! I’m the bard!”

His performance is amazing, better than he could have dreamed of— Maud is enraptured (as she should be) and the other patrons seem just as enthralled. Jaskier starts with The Fishmonger’s Daughter before setting into a new ballad he’s been working on for the past few days about deflowering and Deflowering. The crowd takes to the raunchy imagery and inappropriate jokes just as he’d hoped they would, and by the time Jaskier is bowing out for the night, everyone seems cheered by the show.

“Thank you,” he announces, returning to his table with one last wide grin. “Empty your purses for the fine barkeep tonight, and stumble home safe, you drunk bastards!” Jaskier blows a kiss to the drunkest of the bastards, then he sits down in his seat across from Maud. 

Then he looks down at their table, and he realizes that all the raucous and rumbustious cheers sent their way were accompanied by drinks sent their way. Their table is nearly overflowing with pitchers of wine and ale and other, stronger drinks. Jaskier’s vision is already blurry with joyous intoxication, and he’s not sure how much more drunk he should really get tonight.

Then Maud leans in, giggling. “Funny how many of those songs are about your witcher,” she comments, voice soft with sympathy but still tinged with mirth.

Jaskier stares at her, and then reaches for the nearest pitcher. If they’re going to have this conversation, he’s going to ensure that he doesn’t remember it in the morning.

When Geralt finally returns to the inn, surprisingly unbloodied given the late hour, his appearance is met by a chorus of applause.

The reaction startles him more than a bloodbath might have, and Geralt’s only reaction is to awkwardly nod. This doesn’t seem to deter the drunk patrons, who promptly begin to chant the chorus of _Toss A Coin_ and heckle him with compliments and cheering as he passes their tables. He approaches Jaskier, whose drinking companion abandoned him a while ago for the uninviting prospect of going home to her boring husband. Still, Jaskier’s spirits haven’t been dampened too heavily by her absence. In fact, the appearance of Geralt is wonderful enough that he bursts up out of his chair, grin stretched from ear-to-ear. “Geralt!”

“Jaskier,” replies Geralt, already grimacing.

“You’re alive! And not dead!” His words are slurred but his hands are firm and warm as he sways forward, steadying himself against the witcher’s shoulders… then chest… then abdomen. “Ooh, you’re _very_ alive!”

“And you’re very drunk.”

“No,” scoffs Jaskier, dismissing the offence in favour of patting Geralt’s abdomen more. Gods, are his muscles always that defined? Is he just permanently flexing? “Noooo. We… Maud was here, we went drink-for-drink.”

“I know,” Geralt replies, not bothering to hide the amusement. “I just saw her. I brought Agnes home.”

“Agnes… Oh! Agnes! You brought her home, that’s so heroic of you! Yes! Alive, I hope?”

The witcher frowns. “What’s this weird obsession with life and death about?”

“No, no obsession. That’s so wonderful that she’s home. Safe and sound! You’ll have to tell me the story,” he insists, ushering Geralt into an empty chair. Geralt stays standing, ignoring the gentle hands pressing insistently against his body, as if Jaskier could possibly hope to physically overpower him. “Was it dangerous? Did you miss my helpful presence?”

“No, it wasn’t dangerous. It was a mamune. You know mamunes, Jaskier. They’re like misguids… but shorter.”

“Misguids,” Jaskier repeats, trying to get the word to stick. There’s no use; he knows he’ll have forgotten by tomorrow, and there’s no way Geralt will repeat the interesting story when they’re sober. “Ah, mamunes, yeah. Those little demon fuckers?”

“Exactly.” If Jaskier was less drunk, he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to mistake the look of amusement in Geralt’s eyes for affection so easily. “They aren’t difficult so they don’t present much danger at all; it’s just pest control. And Agnes was alright; just freaked out. Your helpful presence wasn’t necessary at all.”

He tries hard not to let that stupid, trivial statement affect him, but Geralt, _psychic_ Geralt, must be able to read the disappointment written all over his face. “Right. Yeah. Glad I didn’t tag along, then. Plenty of useful things to be done here.”

Geralt sighs, low and long-suffering. “Jaskier—”

“Don’t bother,” Jaskier interrupts. “I know what you meant! No offense and all that, well. None taken! I’ll just sit here, and get drunk, and hang out with people who actually want to be around me.”

“That isn’t fair.” The witcher’s voice is so much gentler than usual; in that tone, Jaskier could listen to him say anything, forever. “I’m not in the place to turn down a contract.”

“There is no way you made those people pay for your work tonight. I know you, Geralt. All six stubborn feet of you. Maud said it, didn’t she? You’re a lifesaver!”

Geralt stares at Jaskier, scrutinizing him. Finally, he asserts, “You’re upset. Why are you upset?”

“I’m not upset!”

“Yes, you are.” The witcher is puzzled. It’s adorable and it only makes Jaskier angrier for no reason. “I’m not going to fight with you, bard.”

“I’m not _trying_ to fight with you, witcher,” Jaskier snaps right back. “So just let things be. Why don’t you have a drink?”

To his credit, Geralt turns to consider the table of emptied mugs before making his decision. “No. I… think I should go to bed.”

“Good!” Jaskier rests his hands on his hips, annoyed by the man’s refusal to bicker with him. “Go to bed. And you know what, Geralt, I think I’ve got enough material for the next few years. So maybe tomorrow, we should head out on our own.”

This desperate attack lands in a way that none of the others have, and when Jaskier sees Geralt’s face as the impact sinks in, he instantly regrets it. But it’s hard to take back his words, especially when he _does_ have a lot of unresolved anger— anger that Geralt has been stoking over the last few days of travel, anger that has sat with Jaskier since the mountain. Geralt’s expression shutters, and Jaskier gets to watch him close himself off in real time. “Not tomorrow. I’m leaving tonight.”

“Come the fuck on,” Jaskier says, brash with anger, and then as Geralt turns to leave, guilt hits him hard. “No, wait, come on. I didn’t— come on!”

“It’s fine.” Geralt doesn’t meet his eyes. “See you around, Jaskier.”

And with that, he turns around and heads out of the tavern. Jaskier suddenly feels violently sober. He fights the urge to chase the witcher, collapsing into his seat and drowning under the weight of what he’s done. Yet again, this is all entirely his fault.

He settles up the meals on his tab and thanks the barkeep without even managing a genuine smile, and then carries his tired body up the stairs. When Jaskier is alone and the door is shut behind him, he finally allows himself a moment of genuine sorrow. The moment stretches into minutes and then hours, and right as Jaskier’s starting to worry that he might sober up, sleep overtakes him.

Jaskier wakes up to the sound of someone breaking into his room.

He knows the sound well; once in Oxenfurt, some of his students had seen fit to prank him by coming into his room early in the morning to steal his mattress away, planning to set it adrift on the lake. Another time in Vizima, he’d fallen asleep between the lovely assets of a married woman, and when her husband came by an hour and a half later, he hadn’t wasted any time looking for a key. Fortunately Jaskier is a light sleeper, and in the case of Vizima, good at climbing out of windows. 

He wonders if he’s going to have to do that now, staring at the knob as it rattles. He can’t think who it would possibly be; the innkeeper had seemed satisfied with his performance, even if they weren’t a fan of how he’d picked a fight with his best friend in the middle of the tavern. Maybe someone took umbrage with one of his racier lines, and now they’ve stopped by to deliver their criticism in person. Or maybe it’s some sort of super-fan, breaking into his room so that they can attain the dubious claim to fame of sleeping with Dandelion.

Whoever it is succeeds and pushes the door open. The room is still dim, barely illuminated by the pale morning light. But Jaskier would know that figure anywhere— even if it doesn’t make a lick of sense that he came back. He can hear the exhaustion in his own voice as he asks, “Is everything alright? Did you forget something?”

From what he can make out of Geralt’s expression from here, the man looks tired. It looks like he might not have slept at all yet; Jaskier has no way of knowing how early in the morning it is, but the sun must be close to rising. The bard pushes himself up onto his elbows, trying to get a better look at Geralt. 

Geralt exhales, small and nervous, and shakes out his hands. “I’m tired of this game, Jaskier,” he says, in a tone he’s never used before. It makes him sound younger, somehow. “I’m tired of picking fights with each other, and all the… all the flirting. I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Ah,” Jaskier shrinks down into himself, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. He already feels rotten with embarrassment, like a child once more burdened by his shame and unfulfilled questions. “Yes. I was wondering if you were ever going to say anything about it. Geralt, I am truly sorr—”

“Stop,” the witcher demands, moving forward. He shuts the door behind him, locking it again. “Jaskier, just… let me speak. I’m tired of lying about the way I feel about you.”

And that, well. That sends Jaskier’s poor little romantic heart into overdrive. He squints at Geralt again, trying to discern if he’s under some sort of spell. “What?”

“I… over the years that I’ve known you, I’ve come to genuinely care for you,” Geralt mumbles, lowering his gaze to stare at the floor now. “So. There’s… every time we get in a fight, or— or share a bed, I can’t stand it. I’m tired of lying about my affections.”

“Your affections,” Jaskier sputters, too astonished to do much more than echo. He climbs out of bed, wearing only his underclothes and no shirts at all. “Are you serious?”

Geralt does lift his head at this, and he watches Jaskier approach him but stays stock-still, frozen on the spot. “Of course,” he answers quietly. “I couldn’t lie about this. Witchers aren’t supposed to feel emotions at all, and anything as sentimental as romance would just be a distraction, but I… every time I travel with you, our… it just gets _worse_.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. “You should’ve said something.”

At that, Geralt laughs, quick and nervous. The sound is more musical than any symphony Jaskier has ever heard. He could mistake the look on Geralt’s face for reproachful, chastising— if not for the nervous lilt to his laugh and how he keeps shifting his weight back and forth. “How could I? I know you’ve got better choices than me, and I know you’ve never felt the same way, so why would I put that burden on you?”

“Hang on.” He sways, trying and failing to process that correctly. “Hang on. Hold on. H-Hold on a fucking second. _I’ve_ never felt the same way? I’ve been coming onto you since Posada, you idiot!”

“You flirt with everyone,” Geralt dismisses.

“I— you’re joking,” Jaskier shakes his head in utter disbelief. “You must be joking. I don’t— alright, here, does this—” and he rocks up onto his feet to kiss Geralt, quick and light on the corner of his mouth.

Well… it’s supposed to be quick and light. But all those years of tension sitting heavy in Jaskier’s shoulders have apparently done a number on Geralt too, as he groans and leans into the kiss, blindly following Jaskier’s mouth. 

And that’s just. Well. That’s just too much for any human to handle. Jaskier is light-headed, and already feverish. But he isn’t daft, so he returns the kiss, falling forward into Geralt and touching him in the way he’s wanted to touch him for years. Decades. He’s dreamt of this during so many lonely nights, and every time he’d been allowed to touch Geralt to mend or massage him, his thoughts had flown, unbidden to this. Now that it’s happening, Jaskier thinks he might die.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, softer than Jaskier has ever heard him speak. “Is this… do you really feel alright, doing this with me?”

“Ask me that again,” he punctuates the sentence with a kiss. When he feels Geralt actually start to form words beneath his lips Jaskier simply fixes his mouth to Geralt’s, breathing in and out and parting his lips so that they might gasp the same air. He mumbles into Geralt’s mouth, “Ask me that again, you big asshole.”

“Point taken,” Geralt breathes, although the words are somewhat swallowed when he leans in to steal Jaskier’s next breath. The witcher’s hands move to his sides, arms sliding underneath Jaskier’s— and Jaskier is all too happy to rest his arms over Geralt’s shoulders, curling his palms around the back of his head and neck. He takes gentle fistfuls of his hair and they kiss, and kiss and kiss and kiss. Jaskier thinks that he could do nothing but this for the remainder of his life and die a perfectly happy man.

Then Geralt’s voice rumbles, chest moving against Jaskier’s, hearts beating together, “Bed?” and an entire world of new possibilities open up. He nods abruptly, pulling Geralt back onto the bed beside them. They end up awkwardly collapsing on top of each other; only it isn’t awkward at all when Geralt finds his mouth again. Then his neck.

“Oh,” Jaskier gasps, thighs hiking up so that he can properly wrap his legs around Geralt’s waist, “oh, you’re far too good at this. We could have spent fifteen years doing this, gods, what were we thinking?”

“You were too young,” Geralt tells him. That confession of _time_ , paired with the teeth that graze over Jaskier’s throat, make him gasp into the empty room. There’s no way Geralt doesn’t feel the warmth and weight of Jaskier slowly growing hard beneath him, but if he does, he ignores it for now like a gentleman.

Jaskier asks, “Since then?” The question is met only with more teeth at his throat; he wonders if Geralt might be trying to leave a mark. Still, he craves an answer so he uses his grip on Geralt’s head, winding his fingers through the silver hair and pulling him off gently. “Geralt. Since then?”

“Mm,” Geralt answers, which is so perfectly _Geralt_ that Jaskier would laugh if he weren’t so frustrated. But then— will wonders never cease— the witcher adds, “Later.”

Jaskier can’t find it in himself to protest, especially not when Geralt’s next move is to push him up the bed so that he can trail down his body, taking advantage of his bare chest. He’s had a lot of sex in his lifetime but there’s something unique about the way Geralt focuses on each part of him, as if Jaskier is a particularly interesting crime scene and Geralt is using his witcher senses to deduce exactly how to solve him.

That allegory probably should be less hot. He doesn’t feel too bad about it, though; not when Geralt kisses along his pectorals and then sucks Jaskier’s nipple between his lips, tugging it on it ever so gently. “ _O_ - _Oh_ , gods, Geralt!”

“These are scarred,” the witcher accuses, raising an eyebrow. Even in the relative darkness of this room, Jaskier can see his curious expression. So the witcher senses thing wasn’t too far off… “What happened?”

He almost can’t remember for a moment, because the sight of Geralt hovering above his nipples with that hungry look in his eyes is enough to block out all rational thought. “Uh,” Jaskier finally manages. “It doesn’t matter, that was nearly eighteen years ago. I was young, it was— it was a mistake.”

Tracing little circles around the buds with his fingers, Geralt watches them rise with the same fascination he’d lend any horrific monster corpse. Jaskier inhales as he flicks one. As it hardens further, swelling up under his touch, Geralt smiles. Jaskier is going to die at the hands of his witcher, but he won’t have been strangled to death with his own lute-strap as Geralt must have fantasized so many times. No, he’s going to burn to death right here in this rented bed, while his witcher plays with his nipples. Geralt repeats, gaze still fixated on the scars too minuscule for any human to notice, “What happened?”

Struggling to remember his own life story, let alone his own name, Jaskier stammers, “I got them pierced. A-at Oxenfurt.”

“Oh.” Geralt’s smile blooms, spreading like wildfire. Jaskier gulps— he’s never been so close to that smile before. “Would you ever get them pierced again?”

“No,” Jaskier says instantly. “No, I could never. Men my age can’t just go get nipple piercings! That’s something teenagers do and regret, it’s out of style. You know, like hickies.”

“Hmm.” Geralt considers Jaskier’s poor abused chest for another moment, and then climbs back up his body to kiss his neck once more. It takes longer than it should take for Jaskier to realize that all the kissing and sucking in one specific spot means that Geralt is, indeed, leaving him a hickey.

“Hey,” Jaskier retorts without an ounce of actual protest. “Hey! People will see that!”

“Good,” Geralt rumbles against his neck. All the blood in Jaskier’s body vacates his limbs and makes a beeline for his cock; he holds onto Geralt for support and dear life. “It’ll stop you from keeping your baguette in the pantries of married women.”

It’s just a stupid joke, really, and Jaskier himself is the butt of it. And there’s nothing sexy about the word baguette, but… new heat pulses through him, making his heart ache as he processes what Geralt just mumbled into his throat. When he was younger he used to dream about settling down with someone; even though he loves often, he loves with a fierce and often exclusive heart. One of his few weaknesses is occasionally being prone to tunnel vision, and as a young romantic bard travelling the land in search of a muse, it had been easy to imagine a future with anyone— from tragic loves lost like the Countess de Stael to ugly, jealous hacks like Valdo Marx.

As years passed and Jaskier aged, the desire to settle down had waned— publicly, at least. The idea of being tangled up in an engagement now frightens him, but… if he’s being honest with himself, he knows that he can’t possibly claim to be afraid of commitment. Not when he’s been _committed_ to following the same stubborn old man around the continent for fifteen years, with not so much as a passing hint of anything more than tolerance from his darling muse.

And now… and now, his muse, who he has followed through life and a hundred almost-deaths, is leaving a mark on him. It truly is childish, and out of style, and if anyone else was threatening to bruise his fair gossamer neck Jaskier would have some choice words for them. But this is Geralt; Geralt, whose hands are gentler than anything even as he teases Jaskier’s skin between his teeth slowly. Geralt, who checks Jaskier over after every battle even when his own body is broken and punctured and beaten. Geralt, who by his own admission, has been hiding more than lust for all this time— he’s been hiding _feelings_. 

Witchers aren’t allowed to keep anything on the Path: Jaskier has personally watched Geralt turn down handmade souvenirs that he knows the witcher would have liked to hold onto. But even the tiniest thread of unnecessary finery might weigh them down, and so materialism is banned, making their already tragic existences far sadder. But Geralt has come back to Jaskier every spring just like the dandelions that poke up all over the fields of Novigrad. He’s grown enough to allow himself small pleasures like a room with a bed, a bath he doesn’t have to warm himself, and now, this. Jaskier likes the idea that Geralt marking him signifies something far more important.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers against his pulse, calling his wandering mind back into reality. He pauses, breath warm and dry on his skin. “You’re distracted.”

“I promise I’m not,” says Jaskier, reaching up to stroke Geralt’s hair. They’re lying side by side now, and the touch to Geralt’s scalp makes his gentle grip on Jaskier’s hip seize up for just one thrilling moment. So, obviously, Jaskier does it again, working his hands through the witcher’s hair until Geralt lets out one tiny, barely audible sigh. “I’m thinking about you.”

He half-expects Geralt to grunt out some ‘less thinking, more doing’ before rolling back on top of him, but to Jaskier’s surprise, he looks strangely pensive. His golden eyes meet Jaskier’s gaze in the dim light, and he cocks an eyebrow. “What about me?”

It occurs now to Jaskier what a miserable life Geralt has led up until now. This occurs to Jaskier ten times every day of course (and several times every night too) but he hasn’t really let himself think about the particulars of how Geralt handles sex— emotionally, that is. Geralt hasn’t been close to anyone in that way since Yennefer, and when the opportunity has arisen for companionship at Rosemary & Thyme or other such establishments, Jaskier has seen him turn down courtesans. And even if he takes them up on it, Jaskier doubts that any of them are tripping over themselves to sleep with a witcher. Geralt is the most handsome man Jaskier has ever laid eyes on, but anti-witcher prejudice goes a long way.

So he foregoes sweet talk and opts instead for honesty, leaning in and kissing Geralt. “Thinking about if you’ve ever been allowed to leave a hickey before,” Jaskier mumbles, pulling back before Geralt can thoroughly distract him again. Geralt licks his lips as soon as Jaskier pulls away, but his eyes are still guarded. “If you’ve ever allowed yourself that small, childish pleasure. Leaving a mark on a lover.”

In lieu of an answer, Geralt kisses him, but Jaskier sees right through him. The mouth on his might be hot and wonderful and divine, but the hand slowly making its way up and down his hip and waist, petting him like a spooked animal, betrays Geralt’s sentimentality. Who would have thought? His pessimist, brutalist, morbid hunter is sentimental in bed. The thought makes Jaskier swoon more than the kisses.

“See, because— hang on,” Jaskier pauses so that he may be kissed again. “Because I… I like it.” _I like it very much, and if you were to tell me you desired only my baguette forever, and that I should avoid traipsing around in anyone else’s pantries, I very well might say yes._ “And if you would want to… um. If it would please you to leave _more_ marks on me, then I think I’d like that too.”

Geralt growls, and they kiss. As soon as Jaskier’s lips are on his Geralt quiets down, which is a damn shame because he was making such lovely noises. Jaskier decides that his new personal mission is to make this so good for Geralt that he doesn’t have to worry about things like keeping quiet.

Careful not to hurt him, Jaskier bites Geralt’s lower lip. That doesn’t produce the groan he’d hoped it would, but the hand on Jaskier’s waist clenches and Geralt’s fingers press into his skin in the best way. He knows exactly where he’d like Geralt to leave the next mark, and as they kiss he reaches down to close his hand over Geralt’s.

Geralt instantly releases him, as if he’s been caught doing something wrong by caressing and touching the person he’s making out with. But Jaskier holds fast, dragging Geralt’s hand down lower and encouraging him with a happy sigh as Geralt grabs hold of his— well, his upper thigh, really, but close enough.

Jaskier wishes he’d gone to bed without smallclothes, and Geralt seems to have read his mind. He drags his wide fingers up Jaskier’s warm skin, and when the tip of his thumb catches on the hem of fabric, Geralt simply slips his hand underneath it, brushing back and forth with the same slow, gentle care. Jaskier’s cock floods with heat at the strangely delicate teasing; Geralt isn’t even touching him anywhere that matters, and he’s pretty sure he’s already leaking.

“Geralt,” he tries to speak but the word is all muffled since when he opens his lips, Geralt takes the opportunity to slide his tongue alongside Jaskier’s. He abandons speech, devoting all his efforts to sucking on Geralt’s tongue and trying to shimmy out of his underwear. He succeeds at one of the two endeavours as Geralt’s breath grows ragged, and he feels his way up further, fingers curiously dipping into the space where Jaskier’s thigh meets the rest of his body, toying around without _actually_ touching his cock at all. “Mmgh, Geralt, _fuck_.”

Geralt’s mouth is wet now and his lips are swollen, and just looking at that makes Jaskier want to come on the spot. But he doesn’t get the chance since Geralt sits up, sliding down the bed and keeping his hand in Jaskier’s smallclothes. He uses his free arm to move the bard’s legs and then peels him out of his last remaining piece of clothing, baring the evidence of his work to the dark room and the warm air.

As his hands slide back up Jaskier’s legs Geralt watches him— well, more specifically, he watches his cock. Jaskier is both horrifically embarrassed by this and desperately aroused; he was right about having leaked precome earlier, and he can feel sweat running down from his knees to his thighs already. Geralt stares at him as if he’s never seen another man naked before, which sends another horrific-desperate burst of embarrassment straight to Jaskier’s prick. He’s usually pretty good with endurance, but right now he thinks he might come untouched if Geralt just sits back and blinks at him a few more times.

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that; the hands wandering along Jaskier’s thighs come to rest right before his cock. Jaskier throws his head back onto the pillow with a thump, closing his eyes and waiting for Geralt to continue his exploration and touch him.

And then his eyes fly open a moment later when he feels the head of his cock enter a wet heat. Jaskier lifts his head so fast he nearly hurts his neck, but it’s worth it to see Geralt sucking on the end of his prick, hands gripping his legs so tightly that they might leave bruises. No, they _will_ leave bruises— Jaskier gasps, trying hard to be respectful and not push up into those willing lips. 

“Gods, yes,” he whimpers, as his cockhead pops out of Geralt’s mouth only so that the witcher can lave his tongue under it, and then lick a long stripe down. “That’s so good, Geralt, you’re so… fuck, I’m not going to last long—”

Geralt pulls off to inform him, “I don’t care.” His voice is low and hoarse already, like he’s been sucking dick for hours and not twenty seconds. He reaches over to where Jaskier has been trying to knead the sheets with frenzied, aimless movement meant to steady himself, and he picks up one of Jaskier’s palms, moving it up onto his scalp. He takes Jaskier’s other hand and just holds it, squeezing tightly. “I just want... This. With you.”

And that’s nearly too much for Jaskier’s little romantic heart to bear, but he clasps Geralt’s hand tightly and weaves his fingers through silver hair. “Me too,” he assures, trying to summon his usual verbose self. Geralt sucks Jaskier’s dick back between his lips and it’s suddenly very hard to focus on anything except his hand in Geralt’s hair, and their intertwined grip on each other, and the mouth on his cock. But he tries, valiantly, pulling out all the stops and leaning on years of academic training. What good is it to be a storyteller if he can’t find words for a moment like this?

“When you say— ah, _fuck_ — when you say, all the fights, and the nights spent in the same bed, I… I understand, I intimately understand that, Geralt, because I, too, have— Oh, gods, oh, that’s so— ah… I have wondered and waited and dreamt in the same way, but I always mistook your— Geralt, _Geralt_ , ah, Geralt, fuck, fuck—”

At which point Geralt laughs around the head of his dick. It’s deep and low and as rare as ever, and it’s not the noise that Jaskier had made it his mission to shock out of Geralt, but it isn’t as embarrassing as it should be for someone to laugh while his cock is in their mouth. If anything, the vibrations are just nice; especially when Geralt follows up the laugh by sinking back down, and then pulling off entirely. 

Jaskier is stunned by the sudden lack of contact but not too stunned to stop babbling, about memories and histories and how often he’s thought of this. He keeps babbling as Geralt comes back up the bed, kneeling over Jaskier, and only gives up on speech when his air supply is cut off quite squarely by a kiss. He tastes himself, which is maybe the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. 

Then, Geralt reaches between them to grab Jaskier’s cock, and that knocks the taste of himself right out of the number one spot. Geralt brings him off in only a few strokes, kissing him all the while to shut him up— although it could hardly be described as kissing when they’re both rocking back and forth, and Jaskier keeps moaning and gasping into Geralt’s open mouth. As he’d promised, it doesn’t take long; he holds tightly onto Geralt’s hand and whimpers like never before, and then he’s coming over the warmth of Geralt’s fist.

Geralt holds his hand as he comes, gaze fixed on Jaskier’s face which can’t possibly look very handsome right now. But the attention is still flattering, and as he softens in the aftermath he stares back at Geralt, unfettered and unashamed. The witcher’s expression is strangely amused, and he cocks an eyebrow. “You were saying something?”

“Yes,” Jaskier nods, still breathing hard. “I was… yes, I was. Come here.” Geralt obliges, trying to climb off of Jaskier so that he might lie beside him again, and Jaskier shakes his head, reaching forward to pull Geralt up. As he still kneels above Jaskier’s chest, straddling him, Jaskier slides down as best he can in his current state. It doesn’t feel like there’s a bone in his body, but he knows what he wants to do now and it _isn’t_ to go back to sleep.

He starts to unbutton Geralt’s trousers, hoping that the witcher will get with the program and remove the rest of his clothes. The witcher does no such thing, peering down at Jaskier— his endeared amusement has vanished, replaced by... nervous confusion? It’s difficult to tell in the low light, but he doesn’t start removing his vest, which is a bad sign. “Jaskier.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier parrots back at him, managing to get his pants down with little effort. Maybe there was an upside to all those times he had to peel bloodied armour from Geralt’s unconscious form. Geralt’s eyes widen, and his whole body goes tense. He’s still breathing hard too, it’s just harder to tell since he’s so damn silent. But his chest is rising and falling fast, and it quickens when Jaskier pulls down his smallclothes.

He’s seen Geralt’s prick before— hell, he’s even seen it hard, although it was hard to get a good look with Chireadan breathing down his neck. But he’s never been this close, or seen it in this context, and the intimacy of this makes a world of difference. Jaskier wishes he hadn’t already come so that he might be speared open by this massive prick and find his release while bouncing on Geralt’s cock.

Then, before Geralt can mistake his excitement for apprehension, he leans in and mimics the way that Geralt had sucked him off— no hesitation, just jumping right in and pressing a kiss to the fat, thick head of Geralt’s cock.

The reaction is instant. Geralt inhales, and his legs shake from their unsteady position on either side of Jaskier’s chest. But Jaskier has no doubts about how strong Geralt is, and he knows the witcher will be able to hold himself up for hours. He sinks down further, licking and humming as he lowers himself as far as he can. Then he stays there, moving back and forth in small increments and breathing slowly through his nose.

Above him, Geralt lets out the most delightful, bitten-off sound— it sounds like he actually might have sunk his teeth into his lip to block any groans or gasps. Jaskier hums again and uses his free hands and vantage points to reach up and play with Geralt’s balls, which causes another perfect sound. Geralt grabs the headboard to steady himself, and then cautiously runs his fingers across Jaskier’s scalp, imitating the way Jaskier had pulled his hair.

Jaskier rewards the feeling with a moan, although it comes out muffled due to the weight blocking his throat, heavy on his tongue. Precome spurts out of Geralt and Jaskier nearly chokes on it, but he manages to swallow it instead— and that, of course, only pushes Geralt closer to the edge. Jaskier keeps sucking him down, reflexively gulping every time he needs to take in air and then thrilling at the sensation of being wholly, utterly filled. He manages to envelop Geralt’s entire length in his mouth, and once he’s made sure the witcher is fully seated he squeezes Geralt’s balls again.

“Fuck,” he hears Geralt cry, probably despite himself. The hand on his hair tightens as a warning, but Jaskier has never been good at taking Geralt’s warnings to heart. He slides off most of the way but doesn’t let Geralt’s cock slip out of his mouth, eager to swallow Geralt’s release. That isn’t something he’s done in years, but some skills can’t be forgotten. 

Jaskier twists one hand around the base of Geralt’s cock and steadies the other on his ass, moaning and arching up off the bed even though he just came. Geralt, apparently not as eager to have Jaskier swallow his load, insistently tugs Jaskier off by his hair just in time as he finds his release. He ends up coming _on_ Jaskier’s open mouth, and down his jaw and newly bruised throat. Jaskier strokes Geralt through his release, whispering soft assurances and then finally helping Geralt down off his chest to lie beside him.

Maybe witchers don’t have much of a recovery period at all. Geralt seems to have other ideas, leaning in to clean up his own come from Jaskier’s face and neck. Jaskier revises his mental list once more— now, that’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. When Geralt finishes his work, he tries to get to his feet, climbing off the bed. Jaskier reaches for him. “What business is so urgent that you have to leave after _that?”_ he whines, not wanting to sound obnoxious but unable to keep it out of his voice. “Stay here with me.”

Geralt hums, breaking out of Jaskier’s grip to climb out of reach anyway. But he doesn’t try to head back to his room or even step away from the bed; all he does is strip down, finally removing his clothing and folding it. He places it on the chair beside the bed and then reaches under Jaskier to try to tug the sheet away. Jaskier smiles and doesn’t move. Geralt grunts, “It’s stained.”

“I don’t care,” Jaskier tells Geralt, echoing back his words. The witcher sighs, relenting and climbing back into bed with Jaskier. “I’d see it get even more stained, if I had my way.”

When Geralt kisses him again, it’s softer than before but just as purposeful and firm. He seems amused by the prospect of fucking again, which is a bad sign for Jaskier’s dick but is too endearing to make Jaskier actually upset. “Sleep, bard,” he whispers.

Jaskier nods, flipping over as best he can to make room for Geralt. It’s usually too hot for blankets when he shares a bed with Geralt in the summer, and he feels hotter now than ever. But he doesn’t feel like he might ignite and burn to death like before; this heat is one of contentment, that sits deep in his body and makes it easy for him to drift off. Before he falls asleep his last words are mumbled to the furnace behind him: “I’m glad you came back.”

He doesn’t expect to get a response to that at all, and just closes his eyes. But this isn’t like their other nights together— a hand slips over his side, and an arm lies across his waist. Geralt, naked behind him, speaks with the intent of someone wanting their words to count and be heard. “I will always come back,” he tells Jaskier, and then, much quieter, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier shifts back against Geralt and sighs, and sleep overtakes them both.

He has the most lovely dream— in it, a long-cherished fantasy comes to life. _Fantasy_ isn’t exactly the right word but _goal_ isn’t either, because in all his years of learning and growing Jaskier had never thought that he would ever end up living out his fantasies of being with Geralt. Not just at his side, but with him. 

After so long spent together with not even the slightest deviance out of friendship, Jaskier had dismissed the possibility entirely. He had assumed (rightfully) that he was one of Geralt’s first and very few friends, and that any time they did something together that stretched the boundaries of what could be imagined as platonic (for instance, the chamomile massages and all the bathing), Geralt believed it to be simply what best friends did for one another. Otherwise, he would have surely pounced on Jaskier years and years ago, after the first dalliance into flirtation.

Throughout all his time getting to know the witcher, it has never occurred to him that perhaps Geralt’s ineptitude and inexperience with friendship translates easily into ineptitude and inexperience with love as well. When Jaskier had seen him with women, both parties always seemed satisfied. Jaskier had assumed that the lack of any long-term relationships (save Yennefer) was due to Geralt’s commitment to the Path, and not some secret yearning for something more with his best friend.

Jaskier still can hardly believe it when he opens his eyes in his very, very lovely dream and sees Geralt stretched out next to him, bare chest rising and falling. Most of the blankets are curled around their lower halves; Jaskier can feel the muscle of Geralt’s thigh against his knee under the covers. They’re both nude, then. He fell asleep on Geralt’s arm, and he must have rolled over at some point in the night so that he might sleep facing his witcher.

The idea is impossible. And yet— here he is, in bed with Geralt. Jaskier’s heart swells with it, rapturous and foolish; and then, before he can burst into song or tear the blankets off of them or kiss Geralt’s eyelashes to gently awaken him like a sleeping princess, his sensible side wakes up and reminds him that he’d better not do anything to ruin this.

Geralt is… not cagey, exactly, but. Once, they'd been offered a week's stay in a beautiful coastal town with vineyards and orchards and salty, fresh air instead of payment for a trip. 

Geralt had declined the offer and demanded the payment instead, and after Jaskier hounded him for answers for the next ten hours, he’d finally relented. Without even glancing over, he had said the stupidest motto Jaskier had ever heard: that ‘indolence kills’.

At the time Jaskier had been livid, but before he could start to sing the praises of wine and fruit and sex and water, he had seen Geralt’s white-knuckled grip around Roach’s reins. He remembers feeling uniquely horrible to this day, and every time the memory returns to him it’s accompanied by the same sick guilt. Was this what they drilled into the heads of little boys who went off to become witchers, he’d wondered? That taking a break, even for only a week, would kill them?

Then they’d spent more time on the road together, and he’d seen Geralt pick up new quests even when he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open and had to keep dosing himself with poisonous potions just to stay conscious. 

Jaskier had figured it out then; Geralt’s personal belief was that allowing himself to relax would allow others to die. It is unbearably grim, and the heaviness of it held Jaskier down so much that he could hardly imagine how Geralt carried it for his whole life.

He wonders if this— if sleeping in with a bard— is taboo in the same way that buying new clothes or taking a vacation is for a witcher. Geralt might have been allowed to come back and fuck him last night, but is it permissible for him to sleep in Jaskier’s bed all day? In the light of day, is he going to be able to stand by the confessions he made last night? 

_Anything as sentimental as romance would just be a distraction,_ he’d said. That, and, _I just… want this._

_With you._

Jaskier groans, barely audible but of course the witcher hears it. His weight shifts on the bed, causing Jaskier to fall forward against his bare body— and Jaskier panics and rolls away. He won’t be the one to ruin this by bringing up Geralt’s obligations, but he also won’t be the one to ruin this by letting them lazily sleep the day away. Indolence kills, but luckily, Jaskier has energy in droves.

He moves away from his perfect fantasy man, sliding his legs off the side of the bed so that he can sit up and look around for his clothes. Almost as soon as he does, there is movement behind him. Arms circle around his waist and cradle his ribs and Jaskier inhales with surprise. “W-Well,” he manages. “Good afternoon to you too.”

Geralt’s arms go loose after a moment and Jaskier pulls away, managing to stand up. Geralt’s hair is a mess and he still looks ravished from the night before— not as much as Jaskier imagines his own mirror reflection will look though, what with all those marks. But the hottest thing about him is his gaze, travelling over Jaskier’s naked body without shame and taking in the sight of him. 

When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble. “Going somewhere?”

“I am _going_ to get dressed,” Jaskier tells him firmly, although his tone is undermined by how soft he sounds. That isn’t entirely his fault, though— no mortal could stand before a shirtless Geralt of Rivia as he checked them out without at least a little vulnerability. “And then I’d like to see if they’ll serve us a late lunch. Or, early dinner, perhaps? It’s hard to say without larksong—”

“Hmm.” Same old Geralt. “You’ve worked up an appetite?” Okay, well, that’s new.

“I— yes,” Jaskier stammers, fighting the urge to cover himself. “Haven’t you?”

“No,” says Geralt brazenly. He leans forward on the bed as if to get a better view, as if he knows exactly what effect his rude, hot attitude is having on Jaskier. “Not yet.”

“Bullshit,” Jaskier coughs, swallowing dry air. “We slept through the whole day. C-Come on, Geralt, you really want to spend all day in bed?”

“I do,” the witcher murmurs, and then, even quieter, “ _please_.”

“Please?” repeats Jaskier with disbelief. He does climb back onto the bed at that, but only so that he can reach for Geralt’s face and hold his eyes up to the light. Sure enough, they look yellow as ever, but Jaskier makes a big show of pretending to check. “Are you sure that that sex flower didn’t mess up your brain, Geralt? Even in my most ribald dreams, I would never have imagined you begging me back to bed with you—”

Geralt bats away the hands holding the sides of his face, only to mimic the gesture and kiss Jaskier. It’s quite rude, actually, interrupting him in the middle of a sentence like that. Jaskier makes up his mind to forgive Geralt just this once though, and he kisses back.

Geralt’s mouth is as warm and inviting as the rest of his body, as he pulls Jaskier into his space until the bard is seated on his lap, blankets knocked off the bed. He makes no further move though; just keeps Jaskier there, naked bodies pressed together, and kisses him. Quite chastely, all things considered.

“You think too much,” Geralt pulls away to mutter against his lips. “Just… just be with me. We can go eat soon, but I’m…” He makes a strangled noise, something like _mhfhh_. “I’m happy.”

“Alright,” Jaskier whispers, fully having abandoned his half-hearted dreams of food. He kisses the side of Geralt’s jaw, and then hooks his hand under it to tilt the witcher’s face up so that he can better kiss his neck.

Geralt is more receptive to this than he’d imagined. He reacts in little ways; his hands twist in the sheets, and his breath catches quietly behind his teeth. When Jaskier takes a break to glance down, he sees that he isn’t only reacting in little ways. He raises an eyebrow, preparing to make some indecent joke.

But before he can, Geralt lifts him back up so that they can kiss once more. “Let’s take it slow,” he insists, voice still deep. “We have a lot of time to make up for.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier stammers, and then something half-muffled between their lips. “Wh-wait, Geralt. I think we should talk about this, shouldn’t we?”

At least Geralt considers him this time, instead of cutting him off with another kiss. “You talk too much too,” he finally decides. “I… I’m not good at talking.”

“Yes, well, you’re clearly very good at the other thing,” and then, “wait!” as Geralt tries to continue the other thing. “Wait, I… okay, if you don’t want to talk about it right now, even though I’m very curious that you claim to have felt this way for _years_ , at least let me say my piece. I’m sorry.”

This confuses the witcher, and he finally pulls back. His hands fall to the bed again, leaving Jaskier to sit atop him like a rider. It would be ridiculous if Jaskier wasn’t at half-mast already. “For what?”

“For telling you to leave.” Their eyes meet, and Jaskier won’t be the first to look away. He stares back without faltering. “Last night, when I told you that I had enough material.”

Geralt dismisses it: “You were drunk.”

“But I shouldn’t have said it, because it wasn’t true. I was just feeling petty, and we’d been fighting so much, and… sometimes I— I feel like you don’t want me around, like the. Like after the mountain, when we weren’t… I’m not sure.” He inhales, trembling slightly, wishing he hadn’t begun this stupid conversation. “I’ve cared about you very, very much— more than you’ve known, apparently— for a very long time, but… now and then, I get nervous that you want me out of your life, so I suppose… oh, Gods, what am I fucking saying,” he cries. “I’ve got a hot, naked witcher in front of me and here I am moaning about my _anxieties!”_

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, softer than before. He sounds amused, but his face is taut with worry. Jaskier wants to reach out to smooth those wrinkles away, and for once he can, so he does. “I’m… sorry, that I haven’t made my feelings clear to you. I’ve been scared because I thought…” He closes his eyes, and Jaskier’s fingers dart across his eyelids, quick as anything. Geralt smiles, but it’s all rueful. “I’ve been scared to talk to you about this because it’s not so simple as wanting you. I need you. You’re… I need you.”

Jaskier’s heart melts, just a little, as he stares at this beautiful and powerful creature confessing a need for him. He gets caught up once more in how vulnerable Geralt looks, and his hands move to smooth back his white hair as he kisses him soundly. “I’m here,” he promises, lips moving against the witcher’s. “You know how hard it is to get rid of me, don’t you? You’re _stuck_ with me.”

“Good,” Geralt growls before capturing Jaskier’s lips. There is no better word for it; when Jaskier writes songs about this moment, he’ll have to lean hard into some pirate fable or something to protect Geralt’s privacy. 

The witcher’s large hands move up from the bed to hold Jaskier, settling into the space at his hips, and he pulls away from the kiss, gasping. “But, you know, speaking of new material, I really think I should go find a quill and start writing my next ballad. No time like the present! Indolence kills—”

With ease, Geralt flips him over, following him down onto the bed with one leg between Jaskier’s open thighs. His arms fall on either side of the bard’s shoulders, bracketing them in and making it easier for Geralt to pin him down.

Jaskier doesn’t manage to get another word out as Geralt holds him in place and rolls his hips down, slowly grinding their pricks together. He can hear an incoherent stream of gasping and babbling from _some_ whore somewhere nearby, but surely that isn’t coming from his own mouth, is it?

“Hush,” Geralt whispers, little more than a growl. But he’s _smiling_ — the devil is smiling, as he props himself up on one tree-trunk arm and reaches down with his free hand to grab both their cocks in his fist and jerk them inelegantly. Jaskier keens into it, quickly forgetting details like the sides of their argument or the inn they’re in or his own name.

But he doesn’t forget what Geralt said earlier, and when a particularly tight upstroke makes precome dribble out of his already hard prick, easing the way for Geralt to keep moving, Jaskier yelps, “What fucking happened to taking it slow?”

“I’m showing you that I want you around, and that I want you,” Geralt explains, voice perfectly calm if a little hoarse. He could be talking to a child with that condescending tone, and it definitely shouldn’t make Jaskier’s dick pulse.

“But— oh, fucking shit, Geralt, you’re trying to kill me,” he moans as the witcher holds him down again and ruts against him. “O-Okay, alright, one s— okay, Gods, okay. Do you, if you, if you have any oil, we could…?”

And apparently that half-babbled sentence does the trick, as Geralt releases him before either of them can find their release and climbs off of him without warning. Now Jaskier is the one reaching to try to beg Geralt back into bed, but the witcher just shakes him off easily and crosses the room to his bag. 

When he returns, there’s a small vial of oil in his hand. He uncorks it and Jaskier immediately breathes it in; fragrant, floral. He wonders if Geralt made this himself or if this is one of his rare purchases, and then Geralt is reaching for Jaskier’s hand and slathering it in oil, massaging his fingers.

Jaskier does his best to sit up, figuring he’d better rearrange himself into a better position for this; even though they aren’t touching anymore, his cock is definitely not flagging. The slow, firm motion of Geralt’s palm spreading oil across his fingers is enough to keep him going for now.

Then, Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and guides it back. He’s blushing a little, although that could easily be attributed to how hard he is. Jaskier is so distracted by the flush on Geralt’s chest that he doesn’t put two and two together until his hand is reaching between a pair of legs that aren’t his own.

Jaskier clues in and gasps, pressing his finger very delicately to the skin by Geralt’s entrance. It’s slick enough that he thinks he could push right in, but he’s so awed by the idea that it’s hard to take the first step. “Are you sure you want it this way? I just looked at that horse cock of yours and assumed…”

Aggrieved, Geralt says, “Please don’t call my dick that,” and then leans forward. He steadies his hands against Jaskier’s chest, fingertips tracing over his nipples that still feel a little sore from when they’d fucked hours ago. “I trust you, Jaskier.” Then he reddens even more, and he confesses, “This… is how I dreamed of it happening.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, stunned. _I trust you_ sounds a lot like another three-word sentence in this intimate context, and that… floors him. Even given everything that Geralt has told him since coming here last night, it still feels impossible. Then he tries pushing his finger inside Geralt, and watches the witcher steady his breath as if he’s meditating, and it feels even more magical. “A-aah. Okay. Yes, I… okay, yeah, yes, I’m into this.”

To prove it he slides his finger in deeper, up to the knuckle, and then quirks it inside Geralt. The man writhes, although he desperately tries to stay still. Jaskier hums, soft and low, and then does it once more.

Curling one finger and watching the expression on Geralt’s face is enough to send another rush of blood south. Jaskier’s pointer finger teases at Geralt’s entrance, and it takes a little time to prepare him but when the two both slide in, and he can move them in slow circles and then curl them at once, Jaskier has the thought that he could lie here doing this for hours.

By the time he fits a third in, Geralt is sweating and palming his dick slowly, trying to match Jaskier’s speed and rhythm. Jaskier has a free hand so he moves to take over, stroking Geralt as he twists his fingers inside him. “You know,” he gasps, his own cock twitching as he rubs the tip of Geralt’s dick with wide eyes, “this really isn’t so different from playing the lute.”

“Shut up,” Geralt groans, but there isn’t any heat in it.

“No, really, the basic principle is the same. The coordination helps, of course.” Jaskier presses his fingers up against a particular nerve that makes Geralt sing; well, not quite _sing_ , but he gasps loud enough to look embarrassed about it afterwards. “And the experience.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns, reaching forward to pinch his nipples again.

“Th-that feels, fucking amazing,” he pants, “but I won’t be distracted. I’m a master at this, you know. I teach it. I think I’m going to get you off like this before I even fuck you.”

That promise, coupled with a particularly clever twist of his hand, produces a whine from Geralt the likes of which Jaskier has never heard before. It encourages him further; he angles his fingers to find the right spot again, and then flicks his thumb over the head of Geralt’s cock. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, and then scrunches up his eyes and gasps again. Jaskier watches, delighted and so turned on he might die of it, as Geralt comes all over Jaskier’s hand and chest. He gets some on his own chest too, not that he’s in any state to notice, fucked out of his mind as he is. “ _Jaskier_.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, still teasing Geralt with his fingers until the last spurt of come lands on his abdomen; then he eases his hand out. He loosens his grip on the man’s cock too, wiping both hands on the sheets before moving to hold Geralt’s hips the same way Geralt had held him. “Did that measure up to your dreams?”

It takes Geralt— indestructible, rugged _Geralt_ — a moment to reply, which is perhaps the most gratifying moment of Jaskier’s life. But as he recovers, prick softening and senses returning, the witcher seems to have something else in mind. He reaches back to take Jaskier’s aching cock in hand, and then in one fluid movement, like a sword being sheathed, he slides halfway down it.

Now Jaskier is the one making noise; his breath hitches and then Geralt sinks down another inch and he hears himself let out an embarrassingly loud moan. He closes his eyes, only to wrench them open a moment later when Geralt’s hands find his shoulders. Geralt’s hair is hanging down over his face, and they aren’t very far apart at all. Jaskier could kiss him.

Somehow he manages to reach up and do so, pulling Geralt down into a kiss. It’s hot, and their mouths are open, and it’s more like they’re trading air than exchanging any sort of _kiss_ , but. Then Geralt is sliding further down Jaskier’s cock, bouncing on it, and Jaskier rapidly finds himself incapable of coherent thought.

“Geralt,” he gasps, far gone enough to have reached the stage all lovers reach where the only word they can speak is the name of their lover. And they are _lovers_ now— it doesn’t seem like either of them has any interest in keeping things casual, not after so many years of tension. 

The revelation hits Jaskier like a carriage bowling him down in the road, right as Geralt moves back up and almost slides off him before rocking down once more, and taking Jaskier to the hilt. He thinks he might be in love with Geralt. It’s a fleeting thought he’s had for nearly sixteen years now, but it’s never felt more vital or real than it does right now.

He repeats, “Geralt,” and then, “I like you,” because he’s too smart to fuck himself over, even now, with his brain leaking out of his prick. He hates himself a little for his cowardice a moment later, because isn’t he a poet? If he can’t commit when his love is riding him, when can he be honest?

Thankfully, Geralt doesn’t seem underwhelmed by the confession; nor does he grimace at the affection. He pushes his sweaty hair up out of his face, and leans forward— the motion causes Jaskier’s cock to strike a new angle inside him, and they both groan.

When he recovers enough to speak, Geralt moves close enough that they’re breathing the same air again. “I know,” he tells Jaskier. “It’s something special that you… that you like me, and I won’t take it for granted anymore.”

It’s a shockingly sweet answer, and not at all what he expected. They kiss, and then Jaskier rolls his hips up and Geralt groans into his open mouth. “But no more talking right now,” he instructs. “Fuck me, bard.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, trying to get control of his breathing. Oh, he’s going to write a thousand ballads about this. “Yeah.” 

He takes hold of Geralt’s ass and thrusts up as best he can, right as Geralt rocks down against him, and suddenly the tight warmth around his cock is exactly too much. His nails dig into Geralt’s ass, sure to leave marks in the morning; Geralt bites his lip open and then chases the quick pain with another kiss.

They fall into each other, tired and satisfied and deeply happy, and Jaskier sends silent thanks to Olvephior.


End file.
